


The Repair of Broken Men

by LadyofToward



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Drama, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Drama, Family Issues, Gen, Good Slytherins, Hogwarts, POV Severus Snape, Plenty of plot, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Canon, Severus Snape Lives, Severus Snape as father, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2019-11-05 09:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 201,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17915975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofToward/pseuds/LadyofToward
Summary: The year is 2006 and Severus Snape has been missing, presumed dead, for eight years.  Then out of the blue, McGonagall receives a letter from him, asking for his job back as Potions Master.  Trouble is, the son he has no idea about is due to start at Hogwarts that year as well.Just when Snape thought life might go back to normal, he is thrown into a post-war Hogwarts in turmoil:  with a headstrong, rebellious son, Slytherins run amok, derailed Malfoys, a vengeful Neville Longbottom, a closure-seeking Harry Potter, Unionised elves and even a ghostly love from his past that isn’t ready to rest.Snape thinks there is nothing left for him to learn; he discovers that "It is a wise father that knows his own child".SEQUEL TO THE UNEVEN ORBIT (reading first is recommended but not essential)





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> The Repair of Broken Men is a sequel to The Uneven Orbit, and while reading that first will provide better context to the events in this story, it is not essential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling.  I do not claim ownership for the characters, except those that are my own. This story is my own invention, and while compliant with the canon, is for entertainment only and not part of the official story line.  I do not intend to profit financially otherwise from the creation and publication of this story.

**Tuesday 25th July, 2006**

It was close to midnight, and most bodies in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – alive or otherwise - were sleeping.  There weren’t many by normal standards, it being the middle of the summer holidays: the dorms were dark and empty, the beds stripped back of bedding, cupboard doors standing open, the odd left-behind shoe thrown into the lost property box.  Classrooms were eerie in the moonlight, so dark and silent compared to their normal hive of activity, empty desks in rows, blackboards blank, displays gathering dust.  The Great Hall was shadowy, the long tables sullenly monochrome without the glory of a thousand floating candles to light them, the corridors down to infrequent, flickering sconce-light, the main staircase flattened to grey but for long window rectangles of silvery moonlight making the marble glow.  The portraits were dozing, and one last owl decamped from the arched pigeonhole of the owlery – in summer, the pickings were easy in the long grass and around Hagrid’s midnight gardens, they filled their bird-sized stomachs early.

There was a yellow light, however, shining from the magnificent, tall, mullioned windows in a castle tower that overlooked the best angle of the lake.  Minerva McGonagall stood before one of the windows now, one framed by hand-hewn stone arch and glass, still robed, lifting a tea cup to her lips mechanically as she contemplated the grounds below her.  She should have been in bed by now, she knew, but all she would do was lie awake, hoping tonight would be different and sleep would steal her away in spite of herself, perhaps override her fear of letting go, so convinced that everything would fall apart if she did, her panicky control was all that prevented disaster.

The lake was peaceful, she saw; little stirred.  Beyond, just visible in the distance, the moonlight picked out twisted metal and pale, broken stone from the rubble heap where unrecoverable damage from the battle had been deposited while rebuilding was underway.  The rubble pile had grown continuously for four years, volcano-shaped, and then it stabilized.  Now, things were trying to grow in it: stubby shrubs, weeds, foxes raised their cubs amongst the ruined bits of timber, stonework, masonry and iron.  How long since the protective barriers had been tested, she wondered, around the precarious, depressing mountain of debris.  Yet another task to add to the list.

The list.  It grew and grew, bottom-less, terrifying in its capacity to engorge with chores and tasks and duties.   She felt the destabilizing weight of it constantly, and at first, when she became Headmistress, she had enslaved herself to it, thinking this was the way to lead, this was how Heads achieved greatness – somehow they fought and defeated the list, much as Longbottom had done with Nagini – it had a head, somewhere, more likely near the bottom, and if you sheared it off then – well, then – and she had no answer.  She didn’t know.  She had never found the bottom of the list.

Her cup clinked on the saucer as she finished her eleventh dose of tea for the day – she was cutting back, which was something.  Then with a heavy, fatigue-filled sigh she returned to The Chair at the desk.  It wasn’t _her_ seat, or _her_ desk – as long as she lived they would be Dumbledore’s – but one small concession she’d made to the Headmaster’s Office while she occupied it was to install a gramophone, and now she turned it on, with a minute flick of her wand, and let the room fill with the hollow company of music.

Placing her cup and saucer carefully to the side of the desk, and bringing closer the candelabrum, she secured her spectacles with her left hand as she picked up the pile of mail with her right.  The letters had been delivered this morning by owl, but she had deposited them in her office for opening later.  It was a habit she’d gotten into: reading her mail late at night, which was a foolish thing to do, she understood that, the practice invariably stressed her as it always brought more things to do, more things to worry about, problems she wasn’t sure how to resolve.  Trying to go to bed and sleep after reading the mail was an act of utter madness; the alternative was to lie awake wondering what was in it.

She flicked her finger under the seal of the first letter and opened it.  A bill.  Of course.  The fresh sand for the Quidditch pitch.  Fine.  Hooch had insisted it necessary or…or what?  No Quidditch?  There was little enough for the children to enjoy right now, Quidditch was good for morale.

The second letter was a notice that the Hogwarts Elves would be called away for up to three hours in a weeks’ time to attend freedom rallies.  These would be held in Edinburgh.  The Elves who were currently receiving a wage would need to be paid even while they attended the rally, consistent with the Decree for Elvish Freedom and Employment.  McGonagall raised a brow but didn’t allow herself to respond, determined not to let her feelings enter the fray.  Tonight she was determined to sleep.

For a moment, she shut her eyes and let the music capture her attention, let it carry her away on a cloud of memories of times she had danced to this particular tune, and an involuntary smile came to her lips, remembering her love, her handsome man, who had waltzed with her in the rose garden, who used to call her Minnie when no one was about, and who had said, “This will be the song for the first dance at our wedding.” 

How long ago?  She almost didn’t want to do the math, the last time she’d worked it out it had been over thirty years.  But she could remember it so clearly, her mind was as good as a Pensieve with that memory.

When the tune had finished, she rubbed her eyes beneath her glasses, sighed again and picked up the next letter, a folded and sealed piece of parchment, good old-fashioned stuff, nice and stiff.  She noticed it had been addressed to her personally, handwritten and somehow…familiar.  She flipped it over to release the seal and examined the wax first to see if revealed any clue, but it was plain.  Then she unfolded the letter, began to read and her eyes widened; her mouth fell open in shock.

_To the Headmistress:_

_Dear Minerva_

_It has been unforgivably long, but if I am honest I hadn’t any plans to write at all.  However, I have encountered reliable news that Horace Slughorn has confirmed his intention to retire.  After much reflection, I am compelled to send you my expression of interest in returning to Hogwarts and resuming my post as Potions Master._

_I would be honoured if you gave me occasion to meet with you and, if the position is indeed vacant, discuss how I can offer my services.  I am entirely open to any preferences or strictures you may have on fulfilling this post since you have assumed Head of the school, and since Slughorn has been Master of the subject._

_Should you already have arrangements, or do not wish to meet, I would appreciate communications accordingly.  However I do hope that you can afford me a brief interview, naturally at a time and place of your convenience.  I am at my residence in Cokeworth if you care to return an owl._

_Yours most sincerely_

_Severus Snape_

McGonagall dropped the letter on the desk, sat back in Dumbledore’s chair and with trembling fingers, took off her spectacles.  Then she snatched up the letter and read it a second time, before remembering to replace her specs and then reading it a third time.  She flicked the parchment over and examined it, as if she might find Severus Snape himself hiding there, and then she shook her head slightly in disbelief.

“How is it possible?” she said beneath her breath.  And then she did the only thing she could think of.

“Albus!  Wake up!  Albus!”

The temptation to shake Dumbledore’s portrait frame was overwhelming; instead she tapped it with her wand.

Dumbledore roused slowly.  So did a few other portraits, including, she noticed, Nigellus, who was incorrigible.  Next to Nigellus’s portrait was Snape’s, the two Slytherin’s side by side.  But Snape’s portrait was motionless and mute, just an ordinary painting.  Still, it was a faithful rendering, copied from the photograph for the Prophet.

Dumbledore said, “Minerva?  I thought it was night.”

She turned back to her advisor, mentor and sage.  “It is night.  What do you care?”

“I was asleep!”

“Why do you need to sleep?”

He paused to consider her.  “If this is because you’re having trouble again -,”

“No.  No I have news.  Important news.”

He blinked, looking, for all the world, like someone who has just been jolted out of a slumber.  The portraits still mystified her.  “I see.  And it is...?”

She took up the letter and shook it in front of Dumbledore.  “It’s Severus Snape!  He has written!  He’s alive, and I recognize his handwriting, it’s actually him!”

Dumbledore’s portrait was suddenly very awake.  He stared, his eyes flicking between McGonagall’s triumphant expression and the letter she held aloft.

“What does it say?” he asked.  “Read it aloud.  Nigellus!”

“I’m listening.”

McGonagall obligingly read the letter from beginning to end.  “He wants to come back!” she summarized unnecessarily, more for her own benefit.

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, a faint smile on his lips.  “Not a word about where he’s been.”

“Out of the blue,” McGonagall agreed.

“Are you sure it’s him?” asked Nigellus, squinting to see the letter. “Could be a prank.”

“That’s his handwriting isn’t it Albus?” said McGonagall, holding up the letter close to Dumbledore’s portrait.  Dumbledore assessed it and then nodded. 

“He had a very distinctive style.”

“Small.  Untidy,” observed McGonagall, reviewing it again.  “Always tried to squeeze too much in.”

“Why hasn’t he been in touch before now?” demanded Nigellus.  “He neglected his duty!  If he was alive the whole time he should have been back long ago.  He was Headmaster!”

McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged looks.

“We really don’t know that much - ,” McGonagall began.

“His appointment as Headmaster was a strategic necessity -,” said Dumbledore.

“It was more a tactical maneouver than something he sought.”

“The last I heard was that he was dead.  Voldemort said -,”

“Harry too!  Harry said he died in the Shrieking Shack,” said Dumbledore. 

“If he survived…then he must…,” McGonagall faltered.  “Who saved him?”

Dumbledore shook his head, bewildered, baffled.  “You know, something I’ve always wondered – that mystery person who found all those missing Death Eaters…”

“You never said you thought it was Severus!”

Nigellus then said, with eyes piercing McGonagall, “He didn’t want to come back after the way you evicted him.”

McGonagall fell silent, and Dumbledore turned to look at Nigellus, not easy from where he was positioned.  “Phineas, that was uncalled for.  Minerva thought she was doing the right thing for the school.  She acted on her principles, which is what we expect of all our Heads.”

“She wasn’t Head! I heard him ask her to listen!  He wanted to explain!  And then…”

“It was a war!” said Dumbledore with a raised, no-nonsense voice.  “She was saving the students.  The…the undercover work was trying for Severus, he was…he was getting tired, maybe the lines had been blurred a little…”

“He was trying to stay alive,” retorted Nigellus shortly.  “He was playing a long game,” Nigellus looked directly at McGonagall.  “And you slung him out.”

McGonagall pursed her lips but didn’t reply.  She looked away and her shoulders slumped.  “At the time…” she began but raised her brows resignedly.  “He was just too convincing.  I took him to be the enemy.”

“I daresay even Severus forgot which side he was on from time to time,” said Dumbledore, with a sympathetic frown. 

“Never!” said Nigellus stoutly.  “You just couldn’t comprehend the complexity of what he was doing.  Brilliant young man.  Bring him back immediately.”

McGonagall looked from Nigellus to Dumbledore, and a faint smile rose to her lips.  “On that,” she said, with a deep breath, “we happen to agree.”


	2. The Professor Emeritus

## The Professor Emeritus

 

McGonagall took a long time to nod off, but when it finally visited her, she slept hard and long, and despite a summer sun shouting through the office window at dawn, in the seclusion of the Head’s quarters, she was undisturbed until nine-thirty am.

The sleep alone made her jubilant. Between rest, and the prospect of Snape returning, she was in good spirits. She reflected on this; age and wisdom making her question many of her own instinctive responses to things. With Snape’s letter carefully propped on The Desk against a framed photo of her nieces and nephews, she finished her pile of mail (supplemented by a fresh arrival that morning), mindlessly ate a lean breakfast and pondered why she felt so _relieved_.

It wasn’t just gladness that he hadn’t died, it was much more selfish than that. She realised, with unexpected and yet nonetheless positive, surprise, that she viewed him as a friend. A friend and collaborator. Not the kind of friend she could go _to_ about personal or private matters, but someone who might be _aware of_ personal or private matters and make room for it and be conscious of it. The kind of friend who would make arrangements to take a class on your behalf without telling anyone, for instance, or who would pass on a sterling reference without mentioning it, who would wade in to defend you when you weren’t there.

She also realised, with shame and deep regret, that she had let Snape down in ways that he hadn’t with her. Even as she’d attacked him with spell upon spell, that fateful night of his sacking, he’d never struck back.   He’d asked for Potter, she’d panicked, she was in her nightclothes for Papus’s sake, the school had looked to her even when he was supposedly in charge and there she was, unexpectedly taking on Death Eaters and Potter relying on her with only a moment’s notice…in truth, she hadn’t expected to win the stand-off. If Flitwick and Slughorn hadn’t shown up, she doubted he would have fled. She’d huffed and puffed and feigned bravado, but if she were honest…her actions had been a _re_ action. Despite everything – be it allegiances, Houses, Quidditch, a war – she’d grown fond of Gryffindor’s worst enemy, and her righteous indignation was actually a serious case of alarm and disappointment that he’d had to become so many shades of grey. She hadn’t liked losing him. She’d fretted that he’d lost his way and wanted to punish him for succumbing to easy temptations. And killing Dumbledore – how did you come back from that?

She took a contemplative sip of tea and once again read his rather formally worded letter. It – he – hadn’t wanted to presume anything, he clearly wasn’t sure where he stood with her. He didn’t know that she, and several others, had viewed his memories in the Pensieve – they had counted as an artefact of war, critical evidence in the Death Eater war crime trials of 1999. The more personal ones had been edited out, after all the Ministry didn’t need a recitation on Snape’s feelings on Lily Evans, but his acts to protect Potter, his deeds as a spy, his attempts to save Dumbledore, watch over Draco, his preparedness to safeguard Hogwarts even as he ran out of time with Voldemort – these, and the assertions from Dumbledore’s portrait (which, with the limitations that go with being a portrait, meant he was little more than a mechanism for relating events) – were enough to vindicate him. That, and Harry Potter’s testimony that Snape, personal feelings aside, had been committed to his duty, remained loyal, stood by his word and did everything in his power – however indirect - for the greater good.

All this had been broadcast at the time through The Prophet and other standard wizarding media channels; the idea that Snape, wherever he’d been hiding, hadn’t seen it for himself would be incredible. Hogwarts itself had held a Remembrance Service for all those who had died in the battle, or in the service of the cause, and Snape had been included among the remembered. As there was no body to bury, a plaque with his name on it had been built into the Remembrance Wall in the castle, and there had been speeches and eulogies, and Potter had said many stalwart things to a silent, heavy-hearted crowd about all those who’d died, including Snape, and had imparted that sometimes the ones you least suspected – nay, the ones you hated most – could be the ones who made the most difference in your life.

All this; it had all happened eight years ago, and if Snape had been aware of it, he didn’t come forward. His body, it was presumed, had been disappeared by Death Eaters, and the Death Eaters presumed it had been recovered by the School or the Order. Neither laid claim, and neither confessed. On what both sides agreed was that he was dead. His posthumous portrait was duly mounted.

“Albus?” said McGonagall, rising from The Chair and waggling Snape’s letter at the large painting behind the desk. “The more I think about it, the more trouble I’m having believing that this letter can possibly be real. The wax seal was blind. Surely he’d have a personalised seal?”

Dumbledore raised a brow. “Is it that you can’t believe, or are you scared to believe?”

“Why would he have stayed away so long?”

They both looked at Snape’s portrait, as if it may answer, but of course it did no such thing.

“Men do strange things when they’re badly hurt,” said Dumbledore after a pause. “Clearly he had to heal physical wounds, but maybe the emotional ones took longer. I recall him being terribly, terribly fraught towards the end. His sense of duty compelled him to do things far outside his nature. And we have no idea what he suffered at the hands of Voldemort. Or it could be much simpler – perhaps he was captive. But I think that less likely. I think he wanted to be hidden.”

“Do you think he knows that _we_ know? The truth, I mean. Do you think he read the news that he was pardoned?”

“I’m certain of it. I think, furthermore, he carried on his duty as a means of absolving himself. I am quite sure it was he that rounded up those stray operatives.”

McGonagall nodded thoughtfully. “Should I tell Shacklebolt?”

“Let us meet with him first,” said Dumbledore. “Let us understand what kind of man he’s become. It is his life, now, after all. He returns freely.”

McGonagall considered his words, then turned briskly to use her wand to levitate her teapot and refresh her cup. “I agree. Then there are but two things left to do. One, I need to talk to Horace. And two – I need to write back to Severus. But first, a cup of tea.”

 

Slughorn invited McGonagall to join him. He was going to Hogsmeade, there was a house for sale that he was thinking about buying and he was going for a viewing. “Wouldn’t mind a second opinion, actually,” he said, as he tied up the laces of his stout walking boots in the Great Hall. “Are you up for a walk?” Along with his boots, he wore long woollen socks, tweed britches and brandished a walking stick with a carved rabbit head.

“Erm..”

“Nothing like it!” declared Slughorn, patting his sides. “Did you know I’ve lost thirty pounds now since I started walking! Just weighed myself this morning.”

“It has been remarkable,” conceded McGonagall with a rapid nod. He certainly seemed better for it and he’d maintained it now for over a year. Unfortunately his drinking and smoking was no better.

“Come along, come along, I’m keen to hear this news,” said Slughorn opening the front door and striding away.

McGonagall’s slim, heeled boots would have to do. Fortunately it was a warm day and there was no need for a cloak. McGonagall opened the Flying Hogs Gates with her wand as they approached, and as they commenced along the stony path to Hogsmeade at a good clip, thanks to Slughorn’s insistence that they get their heart rate up, McGonagall’s long tartan skirts swished up with each kick of her boots. Birds trilled in the trees as they walked, and the long grass of the verges were dotted with wildflowers and bumblebees. In the hills in the distance, swathes were already starting to turn purple and yellow with gorse and heather.

“You see, it’s not considered _aerobic_ unless your heart rate is elevated,” explained Slughorn, his cheeks now ruddy, peering over his glasses at her as McGonagall focussed on keeping alongside him. “I’ve noticed that the more I’ve walked, the more I _have_ to walk to keep a good burn going.”

“I see,” said McGonagall. “You’re obviously taking this all quite seriously. Have you considered that perhaps the tobacco might be hindering your progress?”

“Ah ha, yes, but, ah, no. I’m retiring Minerva, I need a few vices for company.”

McGonagall refrained from comment for a few minutes as they both started to breathe a little faster with the exertion. The crisp, clean mountain air was almost scalding in her lungs.

“Speaking of your retirement,” she said momentarily between puffs, “Thank you for confirming it with me. I know it can take some time to…make the actual decision.”

“Ah well, I’d been telling people long enough. Friends kept saying to me: Sluggy! When are you going to put your feet up?! You’ve been closeted away in that dank castle long enough. Come to London! Come to France! But I can never get away, Minerva. I always have that rotten House to think about.”

“You love Slytherin, Horace.”

“Indeed I do. But I think we’ve all had quite enough of each other.”

“I was thinking…and this is mere speculation mind, so don’t answer just yet…but I was thinking of offering you an Emeritus. Merlin knows, you’ve paid admirable service to Hogwarts.”

Slughorn stopped so abruptly that McGonagall bypassed him and came to a halt a few feet away. When she looked back in surprise, he was gazing at her earnestly. “An Emeritus?”

“Well…yes, that was my thinking.”

“Potions?”

“Of course. Naturally.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose and allowed his gaze to wander over the hedgerow, the sky, the distant pines. Then back to her. “I’m truly honoured,” he said with a small, uncertain smile. “I don’t know what to say.”

McGonagall balked for a moment, questioning herself, thinking she should have run it past Dumbledore first. But then – she straightened - no, she was Head now. It was her decision alone. And Slughorn had done great things for Potions. Riddle notwithstanding.

“There – well there are administrative things I need to put in place. But if we take the date of your resignation as writ, then your Emeritus will commence thereafter. If you buy this place in Hogsmeade, you can have offices in Hogwarts and live in the village.”

Slughorn stepped towards her and took her hand in both of his. “Thankyou Minerva. I’m honoured.”

While she was flustered by the gesture, she had enough composure to simply raise her brows and gently withdraw her hand after a moment. “It is my pleasure, Horace, you’re quite deserving. Shall we get on? Don’t want someone to buy this house from underneath you.”

The pair walked further, disturbing a few partridge where they were feeding on clover, and rounded into the village of Hogsmeade. It was bustling with activity. Saturday was market day and the streets were lined with stalls, witches and wizards in a frenzy with the piles of sweet, fresh produce, bread, fruit and flowers of summer abundance. McGonagall produced a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and patted her brow, touching at her hair, conscious that she was known as the Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Several villagers smiled and nodded in their direction as she and Slughorn wove their way through the throng. Slughorn paused at a stand run by two youngsters to buy chilled lemonade for them both, then they had emerged at the other end of the main street and Slughorn stopped to get his bearings.

“There is another matter,” said McGonagall, sipping her paper cup of rather watery, unsweetened lemon juice. “It’s about the vacancy you’ll be creating.”

“Potions Master, yes,” acknowledged Slughorn, producing a piece of paper from a jacket pocket and consulting it. The picture of a house on it suggested to McGonagall that he was looking for directions.

“Well it’s the rather unexpected news I mentioned earlier.”

Slughorn looked at her directly, but in an untroubled way. “Oh? A prospective applicant?”

“Yes, quite,” she said. He was pointing towards a side-street and she looked to where they were headed. It was a street that sloped gently upwards towards a wooded bank, and so formed a cul-de-sac. The cottages were pretty and modest, with gardens and steep thatched rooves. He gestured forwards and she fell into step.

“You’ll never guess who’s expressed interest.”

“Enlighten me, Minerva.”

“Well, it’s Severus Snape in fact.”

Once more, Slughorn stopped short. “Have I heard you correctly? Did you just say Severus Snape?”

She raised her brows at his confounded expression. “The very same, Horace. He has written to me. I received it just last night.”

His mouth was agape and she couldn’t help but smile.

“But he’s dead!”

“Or so we thought.”

“He’s been alive all this time?”

She took a deep, reserved breath. “I haven’t replied. We haven’t spoken in person. But…Horace, it looks exactly like his writing. His signature.”

“He wants to come back to Hogwarts?” Slughorn was still astonished and was shaking his head in disbelief.

“He expressed interest in your vacancy specifically.”

Slughorn put his hands on his hips and continued to shake his head, dumbfounded. After a minute, when he looked at her again, he was smiling. “Well I for one can’t think of anyone better.”

McGonagall smiled broadly. “I wanted your blessing.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’d be mad not to.”

They continued their walk up the street, Slughorn looking for the house of interest. He spied it, up near the wood and set off in earnest. “Merlin’s slippers – it looks better than the picture.”

“So you won’t mind if I invite Severus for an interview?” puffed McGonagall, hastening after Slughorn, who had stormed off towards the house.

“Of course not! It would be a delight to work with Severus again.”

They approached the house for sale at a more moderate pace, and Slughorn admitted himself through the gate reverentially. McGonagall followed. The cottage had a pale blue door, a paved pathway, and a small orchard of apple and cherry trees was visible from the garden. Before he could raise the knocker, the door opened and a woman stepped out. She was young, with shoulder length, straight red hair, and an abundance of freckles on her smooth, open face. On her hip was a baby, and she was followed to the front step by a boy of seven or eight who hung on the door frame and watched and listened.

Slughorn stopped and stared for a moment as the woman assessed him, half knowing why he might be visiting, but half cautious anyway.

“Good morning – sorry! Afternoon,” said Slughorn, extending his hand and shaking hers. “Professor Slughorn - I sent an owl about a viewing?”

“Hello,” said the redhead, “Nice to meet you. I’m Imogen. Please come through. Sorry about the mess…”

She turned and went inside, but before Slughorn followed her he turned back to McGonagall and uttered under his breath, “Is it just me, or is she Lily Evans incarnate?”

McGonagall didn’t disagree and was thinking to herself that already, there seemed to be signs everywhere.

 

Later that afternoon, she took a seat at The Desk and took forth her pheasant tail quill, dipped it in the ink and prepared herself to write a reply to Snape. It was difficult to know where to begin, and several sentences had formed in her head, only to be dismissed before the nib was set to parchment. Then when she finally started, the correspondence flowed with ease.

_My Dear Severus_

_What a joyous shock it was to receive your letter. We are all quite beside ourselves with wonder that you are not only alive, but willing to return to Hogwarts. We are still quite of the opinion that this is, as ever, your home._

_We should be delighted to meet with you. Albus and I will be seeing to some formalities by means of a discussion about the position, we still require some prerequisites in the way of registration and licenses, but of course you’ll be familiar with those after the audit. Informally, however, we look forward to seeing you and hearing of your adventures during these last, long years._

_I do hope you don’t mind that I have had occasion to talk to Horace about your letter and he is as supportive as we in considering your application. And, I have forewarned Hagrid of your impending arrival as it would not do to surprise him – I err on the side of caution where he is concerned._

_As this is the summer holidays, we are quite at your disposal regarding a date and time. To save on owls, I propose Monday, 31 st July at 11am. I shall meet you at the front gate. However if this does not suit, please contact me by Floo and we can make alternative arrangements._

_Very truly yours_

_Minerva_

She read it several times over, vaguely disappointed that it didn’t convey as richly as she’d hoped the level of feeling she actually felt on the matter, it came across rather official. The proposed date of 31st of July being Potter’s birthday was only slightly coincidental – she felt it would be a good omen. But eight years had passed, she’d had but a day to take out the mental file marked “Snape” and shake it out, realising everything it had contained had been false or misguided. The file was now largely empty. Her official tone belied the guardedness she felt about being caught out, she was reserved and a bit wary, a fair amount of trust had been called upon based on a single letter.

Before she lost her bottle completely, she folded the parchment and sealed it, then addressed it to Spinner’s End. She summoned an elf and asked him to post it using a school owl.

When the elf left the room, she turned and stood unsurely, thinking _It was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do._

“Minerva?” queried Dumbledore, his head tilted back, surveying her. “I recognise that posture of yours. Are you uncertain about it?”

“No...,” she answered, very uncertainly. Then apropos of nothing: “I have offered Horace an Emeritus, and tenure, and he is extremely happy about it. Do you think that was wise?”

“I think that very honourable of you, Minerva.”

“Oh good.” She returned to sit at The Chair and crossed her legs, placing her wand on the desktop. “I think Horace and Severus will work alongside each other very well. Horace can retain his Head of House, I feel. And Severus can assist Benedict Hellmann find his feet with Dark Arts.”

“Ah. Yes. Hmmm…,” said Dumbledore and Minerva glanced up.

“No? You don’t think?”

“Professor Hellmann is likely to think his own skill in Dark Arts far superior to even Severus…coming from Durmstrang,” replied Dumbledore with a slight frown. “And being German…I expect there won’t be much assistance needing in finding any feet.”

“Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I was just pondering on how best to occupy Severus…I believe we all agree he is at his best when kept busy.”

“True enough certainly. But again, let us meet him first. We don’t know what changes he’s undergone. Perhaps he is now married with children!”

McGonagall’s eyes widened, the possibility clearly never having crossed her mind, and yet realising she had absolutely no grounds for refuting it.

There was silence in the office for a minute or two as imaginations tried to construct a mental version of Snape packing lunchboxes and wiping noses. “No. Surely not,” muttered McGonagall eventually. “I’m having a lot of trouble seeing it.”

“I as well,” agreed Dumbledore. “Portrait imaginations aren’t very good I’m told. But there was one thing you told me – since we are on the subject of _familiam_ – did you not say the second child of the Burbage woman was starting this term?”

“The Burbage woman!” echoed McGonagall, incensed. “You mean Charity Burbage, _Professor_? Author of our own Muggle Studies textbook? _That_ Burbage woman?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied in a chastened voice. “Yes, Professor Burbage.”

“The _same_ Burbage woman named on our Remembrance Wall?”

“I apologise for my coarseness.”

“Well yes, since you ask. A son…James Servius Burbage…,” McGonagall picked up and checked the Master Enrolment document which she’d been working on just the day before. The letters were almost due to be sent. “Half-brother of Holly Chadwick who graduated just last year.”

“It might be prudent of you to mention that when we meet with Severus. It was around eleven or twelve years ago when he and the Bur – Charity Burbage – had a bit of a…well, they became close, as I daresay, you recall.”

Once again McGonagall’s brows lifted, this time in vague surprise. “Actually yes, now you mention it…it was just before she went to work at the Ministry.”

Dumbledore looked at her and waited patiently. McGonagall processed the information for a moment, then her mouth fell open. She looked back at Dumbledore in amazement. “You aren’t implying…?”

“He never said a word.”

“…the young Burbage boy…?!”

“I think it would be salutary to get a good look at him before you start adding two and two, Minerva.”

“Does he know? I mean, when she was killed – there was no sign from him -!”

Dumbledore nodded with some gravity, but he was keen as well. “I honestly don’t believe he knows. We are making assumptions on top of guesswork atop scandal now. I think we should just step back and see for ourselves.”

“Hear, hear,” said Nigellus peremptorily. “Let the poor man through the door before you start saddling him with diaper duty and the front page of _Hogwarts Hot Gossip_. And even if the young lad is Snape’s, I think your energies would be far better invested in the child than the father. Merlin only knows what kind of confluence of genes we’ll discover.”

McGonagall consulted her enrolment list again and said, “Candace Peacock from the Ministry is nominated as his guardian as apparently he’s being raised by his Muggle grandparents. They’ll be _au courants_ since Charity I suppose. Still, if Candace wants to remain involved well that’s nice for young James Servius, at least there’s a connection maintained between his Muggle upbringing and the wizarding world.”

“Depending on how the meeting goes on Monday,” said Dumbledore, “we may need Madam Peacock’s assistance in breaking the news. On both fronts. Don’t forget, young James will think he’s an orphan.”

McGonagall looked at her list with a glazed expression. There were close to three-hundred students enrolled for the 2006 – 2007 school year, the numbers mounted steadily each intake reflecting both the population and growing confidence in Hogwarts after the war. The Ministry was growing too, as efforts to maintain the Statute of Secrecy generated the need for ever more extreme and intelligent solutions. Shacklebolt as Minister was working hard, and for the time being had maintained strong and confident relations with the Muggle Prime Minister which helped enormously. And having Potter, Granger and Weasley working there had certainly done wonders from a public relations point of view.

“I think it’s going to be a busy year, Albus,” she sighed.

 


	3. The Interview

## The Interview

 

Monday July thirty-first dawned bright and clear and it was forecast to be warm, occasioning much moaning from those due to go back to work after a spectacularly un-summer-like weekend of cloud and drizzle. Children everywhere, however, were delighted to get a proper day outside during their holidays, and as Severus Snape locked up the front door of his Spinners End home later that morning, he could hear excitable laughing and shrieks coming from the playground as children gathered to their nearest approximation of a park to enjoy the sunshine. It was the same park in which he had first spoken to Lily, and the tree was still there, and the swing set. It reflected more on the poor level of service his local Council provided rather than any latent sentimentality – the swings had been rusty and uncomfortable even then.

Given the number of people out and about, he had to pick his moment carefully to disapparate. When he was quite confident there was no-one to see him – he didn’t attract as much attention from his neighbours these days anyway, they were becoming more accustomed to their odd, quiet, bachelor next door (although it was agreed between his neighbours that, of any house on the street, his was most likely to be the one with frozen body parts in his fridge) – he vanished with a barely audible crack.

McGonagall was waiting for him at the gates of Hogwarts, as promised, at eleven am sharp. She was dressed in full witch’s attire to commemorate the event, including her pointed hat. The moment she laid eyes on him, her face split into a wide smile and she declared, “Severus! Can it be?!”

He inclined his head, offered the merest of smiles in return and paused to take in the scene before him. The wrought iron gates with their winged boars, the winding path up to the castle, the road to Hogsmeade, the brambly, wild-flowered edge of the Forbidden Forest – it hadn’t changed, of course it hadn’t, it would take a supreme arrogance to think that time or anyone had any kind of effect on the permanence of this place. Hogwarts carried on steadfastly with or without him.

“Minerva,” he said, and didn’t assist with what seemed to be tentativeness from her about a greeting. She approached him boldly, then faltered right before the normal moment for an embrace, and instead stuck out her hand. He shook it.

She looked up at him and her eyes scanned his face. She would find it aged, which was not just the result of time. While a wrinkle or two betrayed his forty-fifth year, and he was discovering an increasingly steady arrival of grey in his temples and whiskers, it showed mostly in his eyes. They had seen far, far too much. But what she said was: “By the goodness of Merlin: here you are, back from the dead, and you don’t look a bit different.”

“Thank you. Yes, well the phoenix must burn to emerge, said someone; however you are being kind. I’m well aware that the rigours of time are showing. You, however, are immaculate.”

While she brushed off the compliment, her eyes danced a little. “But you are skinny!” she declared, standing back. “Look – your coat just hangs. Come along, come along I will order us some tea and scones.”

She ushered him through the gate which swung shut behind them and commenced up the path, only to be suddenly apprehended by a strange, leggy, tufty-furred. grey-coloured dog who loped up towards them and wagged its long tail slowly. “Oh, this is Fisk, Hagrid’s new dog,” McGonagall explained, giving it a halting pat on the head. “Fang passed not long ago,” she added under her breath.

“What is it? Some kind of greyhound?”

“It’s a deerhound. My father had them, they’re very popular around these parts. They don’t drool, so that’s an improvement.”

Just then there was a roar, and all three jumped. It was coming from further up the path around a corner, and the tremor of pounding footsteps was accompanied by a bellow: “SEVERUS!” Hagrid appeared, not quite at a run, but with strides long enough that his beard flew behind him and his great ring of keys jangled alarmingly. A flock of sparrows startled into the air.

“Hello Hagrid -,” Snape had time to say before the giant grabbed him in a hug that lifted him clear of the ground.

“How be on, yah great apeth?!” hollered Hagrid. “Where’s you bin to? We all but buried yeh! I cried for days, yeh heller!”

“Ah, well, I’m - oof!”

Hagrid half cuffed him, half hugged him again, and then rubbed a tear away roughly from the corner of his eye as he held Snape at an arm’s length. Fisk watched it all with a goofy grin. “But seriously, Sev’rus – are y’awright? Are you all in one piece?”

“Yes, thank you Hagrid, in a single piece,” replied Snape, straightening his coat.

“Will yeh join me for a whisky la’er? In me hut? I wan’ to hear all your adventures. An’ tell you off for lettin’ them Death Eaters ruin this school. In fact, thinkin’ on it, I don’ figure I’ve talked to yer proper since Dumbeldore -,”

“That’ll do, Hagrid,” said McGonagall. “Severus can talk to you in due course. We have an appointment at the minute.”

At that, Hagrid stepped back and beamed, absently dropping a great hand repeatedly on his dog’s head. “Ah, still, it’s great ta have yeh home, Severus.”

Snape coughed and nodded, then he and McGonagall resumed their hike up the path to the front entrance, as Hagrid stepped aside to let them pass. Snape was reflecting on Hagrid’s words, realising the jagged nature of time, that despite the eight years’ worth of recent history he’d accumulated in his own mind, as far as Hogwarts was concerned, his story had stopped in ninety-eight. They would pick up where they’d left off, and yet it was discombobulated by almost a decade of mellowing, as if his Death Eater days were a wayward, adolescent phase that was almost endearing in retrospect. While he was thinking, the Whomping Willow coming into view in vibrant leaf, McGonagall pointed out and chatted about the new greenhouses that had been installed, the expansion of some of the dorms to accommodate the increase in roll. And then she stopped, just before the courtyard of the castle and paused, looking up at the enormous structure. He followed her solemn gaze.

“She took a terrible beating, Severus,” she murmured. He could see she was looking at massive scars and patches in the stone, gaping holes, whole turrets still in ruin, scaffolding and struts propping up walls.

“I remember it burning,” he concurred quietly. The castle had seemed to scream.

“Fixing the fire damage was easy. But we’ve reached the limit on what we can magic by way of repair. We’ve been rebuilding ever since. We’ve an army of builders on site, especially over the holidays. It’s costing the Ministry a mint. She’s just so big and so auld.”

“She’s still standing.”

“Aye. And in some respects, the rebuilt parts are stronger and better. But I – I’ll be honest I was greetin’ when I first saw it.” A look of abject despair was on her face.

“That would have been a lot to take on by yourself.”

“Yes,” she said, and then her eyes sharpened. “And where was my right hand man?”

“Sacked, Minerva,” said Snape in response, holding her gaze. She looked stricken, but he gave a slight smile and raised a brow, and she relaxed. In fact she chuckled.

“Oh yes. I forgot.” She looked at him a bit archly, a bit ruefully. “That’ll be another whisky session, explaining that one.”

They entered the castle and again took a moment as Snape was assaulted with memories. The light, the smell, the echoey wideness – everything was the same. The endless kilometres he’d trekked across these flagstones, up and down those stairs, he could almost hear the bedlam of dining students in the Great Hall.

“Her bones were still good, thank goodness,” murmured McGonagall, looking about her as well, up to the towering, cathedral ceilings. “We had to replace all the stained glass in the Renaissance windows.”

To the slightly plaintive note in her voice, he said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.” A terse smile.

Snape’s eyes dropped to Slughorn’s Stairs, his way to the dungeon. Unexpectedly, he felt a sharp longing to go there right now, to see his old office and his old classroom. He hadn’t realised how he’d missed it. He could have found his way blindfolded.

“Right now, though, we’re on our way to the Headmaster’s Office. Dumbledore’s dying to see you.” And McGonagall stepped away briskly.

He felt a jolt at the name, at her poorly chosen words; too late he caught himself imagining the old wizard sitting behind his desk. Of course she meant the portrait. Here they were, almost ten years since…since…and still unable to accept that the old Headmaster didn’t walk amongst them. When Snape played the game of Greatest Regrets, the evening at the Astronomy Tower was still number one. It didn’t matter: all the logic, all the reasoning, all the intellectual arguments and rationalisations. They didn’t matter. His Greatest Regret – even above calling Lily a mudblood – was agreeing to kill Dumbledore.

Together they went to the Headmaster’s Tower and from there the office. Along the way, various portraits recognised Snape and made comments of surprise and welcome. Snape noticed certain rooms, doors, corridors roped off or barricaded. Whole sections of wall were devoid of art or tapestry. At the Headmaster’s Office, the gargoyle admitted McGonagall without need for a password and they ascended the spiral staircase, Snape once more flooded with memories of the times he’d used them. So many. When he’d held the Headmaster post, he’d grown to loathe them, they came to represent a twist away from normality, to isolation, to a kind of prison. He’d felt such an imposter but at the same time burdened with a depressing responsibility, not in charge and yet with the weight of the castle upon him. “How do you feel about these stairs?” he asked McGonagall.

“Conflicted,” she answered openly.

Upon entering the Office, McGonagall said immediately, “Albus! Look who’s here!”

Snape’s eyes came to rest on Dumbledore’s portrait with a familiarity as if he’d done it hours, not years, ago. He’d done it so many times locked away in this room, it was like visiting an old cellmate.

“Severus!” exclaimed Dumbledore from within his gilded frame. “Welcome back to Hogwarts!”

“Sir,” said Snape, and as he had with McGonagall, inclined his head.

“You are quite well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Can you call me Albus?”

Snape paused. “I suspect not, sir.”

Dumbledore laughed aloud delightedly. “Well then, it is like old times. We were quite beside ourselves when we received your letter.”

“Where have you been, Snape?” demanded Phineus Nigellus, scowling.

At looking at the portrait of Nigellus, Snape noticed the portrait of himself. He propped and stared. “What is that?”

McGonagall came up with a swish of skirts and said, “Of course when we thought you were dead – well, it was only fair, you had been Head -,”

“Harry wanted it,” said Dumbledore.

“We all did,” said McGonagall quickly. “Only it’s posthumous, so it – it’s not magical.”

“Potter wanted it?” repeated Snape in confusion. He took a step towards the portrait, for some reason deeply troubled by it. “But…how?’

“The artist used the picture taken for the Prophet. When your post was announced,” McGonagall explained. “You must recognise it?”

“Yes, but...” he turned back to McGonagall and Dumbledore. “It’s not…it doesn’t…that’s not a real one.”

“You’re not dead,” said McGonagall simply.

“Thank you for reminding us!” said Nigellus sharply and the other Heads in their picture frames murmured irritably.

Snape stood straight. “With the greatest respect, I believe that portrait should be taken down.”

McGonagall cast a quick look at Dumbledore. “Well, fine, we can do that, but don’t be offended by it -,”

“I’m not in the least offended. But as you say – I’m not dead. And furthermore, I wasn’t…that posting…I didn’t seek it.”

Dumbledore said quietly, “I think Potter wanted a way to acknowledge you.”

Snape didn’t speak, but there was a momentary aspect of grudging gratitude, then stern again. “Well I’m sure he’d understand my point of view now.”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” said McGonagall, and invited Snape to sit opposite her at The Desk, which permitted Dumbledore to see and hear everything he said. Snape accepted the empty chair, and then a cup of tea as well as McGonagall poured herself one. This was number eight for the day for her, and given it wasn’t even midday yet, wasn’t boding well for staying on target.

After a short interval in which McGonagall tried hard not to stare at Snape over her teacup, she said, “Well! I must say, I never thought I’d have the pleasure of sitting across a desk from you again Severus. Of course a million questions cross my mind, but I don’t think any of us can proceed until you answer this all pervading one: how is it that you are still alive?”

Snape knew this question was coming and had already prepared his answer. “I was left for dead, but persons I cannot name discovered me and took me to their infirmary. I owe my life to them, and I paid in dues, but part of the contract is that their secret is protected. More than that I’m afraid I can’t say.”

Dumbledore frowned: “Harry said you were already dead when he and his friends left you.”

“I virtually was. It took expert care to resuscitate me. There wouldn’t have been anything Potter could have done. He took…he got the message, and that was the priority.”

“Why did Voldemort use his snake?” asked McGonagall, poorly disguising her repugnance. “Why not just use the Killing Curse?”

“I don’t know,” said Snape, and had nothing more to add. He’d wondered the same thing endlessly. If he hadn’t been mistaken in assuming he needed to kill Snape to acquire the Elder Wand, he’d very nearly shot himself in the foot. A careless effort for Voldemort. The knowledge that the Dark Lord had disposed of him so ruthlessly for no reason whatsoever had cost Snape hours of post-traumatic sleeplessness.

"Well it's just as well he did, otherwise I doubt even these so-called experts would have been able to rescue you. Did you say an _infirmary?_ " Dumbledore asked thoughtfully.

Snape held Dumbledore's disconcertingly alive-looking eyes and murmured: "I did.  Thanks to them I have no impairment but I have been stitched back together so many times I sympathise with Frankenstein’s monster in barely recognising what is original and what is repair. I feel fine.”

“Remarkable,” muttered Dumbledore. “Remarkable.”  From the way Dumbledore was studying him, Snape was relieved it was only his portrait he was conversing with.  He formed the distinct impression that were his old Head still alive, the interrogation would have lasted longer - something appeared to have resonated, but the knowledge or memory was too indistinct.

“I have an interesting scar on my neck.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up, and Snape humoured her by pulling down his cravat to reveal the ragged welt of shiny, healed tissue.

“Remarkable,” uttered Dumbledore again, peering hard.

“Were you in the care of the healers for long?” McGonagall asked.

“Around eighteen months. The injuries didn’t take long…I needed…time.”

It was plain what he meant. The flicker of something grave crossed his eyes.

“Did you receive news in the infirmary? About Voldemort’s defeat, the prosecution of the Death Eaters?” enquired McGonagall. “Did you hear that you were pardoned?” She thought if he had known of this while he was healing, it might have helped.

“Not immediately. But in time I did, yes. The timing of the reprieve was actually a bit of a nuisance since it alerted the escaped Death Eaters that I was no longer to be trusted. I couldn’t coax them out of hiding - ,”

“It _was_ you!” exclaimed Dumbledore, looking very satisfied.

“It took a lot longer than it would have otherwise.” Snape’s expression was neutral as he divulged this information, unaware or indifferent to the months of newspaper intrigue the Prophet had capitalised on each time a missing Death Eater was mysteriously deposited in the care of the Law Department, at least twice – Rowle, Mulciber Jnr - to Potter himself. Of course, speculation had been rife that it was the missing Snape who’d survived against all odds, but Potter – aghast at the idea that he’d left Snape dying rather than dead – quickly shut the rumour down, preferring instead to insist that the Death Eaters had eliminated Snape’s body as mitigating evidence.

“Could be an Order of Merlin in it for you,” McGonagall commented, but Snape shook his head, somewhat wearily.

“It’s all behind me now,” he said. “It’s in the past.”

Scones with jam and cream arrived by elf at this point, and there was a short break in the conversation while McGonagall made arrangements to eat, but Snape declined.

“Are you quite sure,” said the Headmistress, looking very concerned. “I shall arrange for some to go home with you. I don’t think you’re eating enough, Severus.”

“I have missed the good meals at Hogwarts,” admitted Snape. “Nobody ever went hungry.”

“I do hope that’s not the only reason you’re coming back!” guffawed Dumbledore. “Although it is an excellent one.”

“Yes – why are you interested in returning, Severus?” McGonagall asked, spooning jam onto a scone. “After all your adventures?”

He looked directly at her and said, “I enjoy teaching.”

For a beat there was silence, and then McGonagall and Dumbledore both burst out laughing. Snape felt a slow heat rise up, but tried to keep his face neutral. He hadn’t lied, exactly, but it was something he’d learned about himself the longer he _wasn’_ t teaching.

“You _hate_ teaching!” declared McGonagall, going so far as to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

“That’s not entirely true -,”

“You would have been an excellent teacher,” chuckled Dumbledore, “If only it weren’t for the students.”

“I know I was sometimes strict -,”

“Tyrannical was the word I heard,” muttered McGonagall.

“Not from Slytherins – from your lot.”

“Next you’ll be telling us you want to coach Quidditch.”

“No,” Snape conceded. “That would be a step too far.”

“Och Severus – thank you for a decent laugh, I haven’t had one in ages,” said McGonagall, “but let’s not pretend you’ve missed double-potions. I do appreciate this is an interview, but..well, you don’t need to haver with me. Of course we welcome you back with open arms, there’s no need to be insincere.”

“Being a good teacher,” chipped in Nigellus, “is a lot more than just standing in a classroom! Snape clearly missed all the other aspects.”

“Yes, the meals, we’ve established that,” remarked Dumbledore.

Snape’s look was scornful and Dumbledore said, “And there’s the Severus we know and love.”

“All that notwithstanding,” persevered Snape. “I am genuine in my assertion that I am ready to return to teaching. And I have been studying potioneering in Europe and the Middle East and feel I have a lot to offer the post.”

“Travelling Severus? Ah, blessed are the curious for they shall have adventures,” said Dumbledore, and even his painted eyes appeared to twinkle.

“Wonderful, Severus,” re-joined McGonagall. “It is something I plan to do myself. Sooner rather than later.”

“I took an opportunity.”

“It is one advantage of being a wizard – it is easy to get lost for a while if need be. That’s one of the reasons Voldemort branded his operatives, I daresay,” said Dumbledore.


	4. The News

## The News

 

After dabbing away the traces of scones and cream from her fingers, McGonagall tipped her head a little at Snape and affected fiddling with an earring, eyes askance. “And did you travel…alone, Severus?”

“Yes,” he detected her inquisitive tone and added, “I am still single, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well of course it’s none of my business…,” she huffed. “I was more thinking about whether you’d be taking your old quarters back -,”

“If Professor Slughorn no longer has use of them…”

“Professor Slughorn looks to take accommodation in Hogsmeade, in fact. Interestingly, we have a new Professor of DADA commencing this year, and he brings a small family with him.”

“Indeed? I had wondered about the Dark Arts post.” It was still Snape’s first love and preference, but the vacancy was in Potions and so Potions it would be.

“Did you research that as well on your travels?” asked Dumbledore.

“Only in passing.” There was a lot in passing. On top of what he’d already been taught as a Death Eater, there was an abundance he'd acquired from his time at the infirmary, under the tutelage of the Wicce. She’d have given Voldemort a run for his money. And what he’d learnt in Hungary and Czechoslovakia rendered him barely legal back on British soil. It made _sectumsempra_ look like something you’d learn off a Chocolate Frog card.

“Well Professor Hellmann is coming from Germany. Durmstrang. He’s highly qualified, I’m sure you’ll get along famously with him,” said McGonagall, noting Snape’s heavy frown.

“I shall be glad to make his acquaintance,” replied Snape stiffly, his countenance suggesting the complete opposite.

“There’s been a few changes in staff since you were here,” went on McGonagall, very much in Headmistress mode. “Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration and, of course, Muggle Studies.”

“Perfectly normal in the space of eight years.”

McGonagall waited to see some kind of reaction to the mention of Muggle Studies, but there was no change of expression. She ploughed on.

“We’ve adopted in full a new curriculum for Muggle Studies, thanks to the work done by Charity. And Sir Byron has been tireless since the war ended. Professor Hellmann was his recommendation.”

Snape’s eyes twitched a little. “After the way Carrow butchered Muggle Studies, it certainly needed review.”

McGonagall glanced at Dumbledore, whose brow dented a little but he didn’t speak. Snape saw the exchange and frowned a little himself. “Is something the matter?”

McGonagall cleared her throat nervously. “Well…we know that you…were _fond_ of Charity…and it must have been terrible for you when she died. I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was, what with you being with…the moment just never came up,” she said in a rush, being careful not to look at him too pointedly.

Snape looked entirely confused. “Well her death was certainly shocking but…”

Once again McGonagall looked at Dumbledore, and this time Snape straightened a little in his chair. “What’s going on?”

“Whatever do you mean, Severus?” asked Dumbledore.

“You keep looking at each other.”

“Well, uh, it’s just that -,” began McGonagall, shifting through the papers on The Desk to find the enrolment list.

“Why did you say I was fond of her?” said Snape, eyes piercing, thinking back on the fateful, awful night at Malfoy Manor. The strange way the suspended Burbage woman had kept earnestly saying his name, as if she were trying to communicate something. Draco’s uncharacteristic reaction at the sight of her, he was normally so affectedly composed. Quite apart from the absolute horror of listening to that monstrous snake consuming a colleague somewhere on the floor behind him, was enduring the impotence he felt, the inability to do anything about it; the whole affair had harrowed him ever since; he often startled awake in a cold sweat from nightmares. “That was an odd choice of word.”

Dumbledore coughed loudly, and given it obviously had nothing to do with anything in his throat, it could only be a signal to McGonagall.

The Headmistress lifted the enrolment list and pointed out the name James Servius Burbage. “You see – she had a bairn at the time of her death, who this year is due to start at Hogwarts -,”

“She had a child?!” repeated Snape, appalled. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Two, in fact,” said McGonagall. “Her daughter Holly has just graduated. Bright young thing. A bit – a bit prickly – but under the circumstances…”

Snape suddenly felt cold. That room, those people around the table, the way she had slowly rotated…there had been two children somewhere, two young children missing their mother…that never occurred to him.

Dumbledore noted the way Snape had paled. “It was a war, Severus, there are casualties. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I didn’t have time,” said Snape, cast back to the night in question. “I was trying to think of something but…he - Voldemort - was trying to entrap me, it was a test, and she would have been killed whatever I’d attempted, he wanted her place for Alecto -,” he raised his eyes again slowly and refocussed. “But – why did you say I was _fond_ of her?”

McGonagall swallowed with difficulty. “I really just wanted to warn you in case…young Burbage here…he may have heard things, you know, The Prophet does love to hash things up so.”

“Papus save us,” said Snape, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “It will be like Potter all over again. He’s not a _chosen_ one is he?”

“Eleven is an impressionable age,” commented Dumbledore. “I don’t doubt he’ll have questions if he’s aware.”

“His father? Wizarding or Muggle?” asked Snape with a pained expression.

Yet again, McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged fleeting looks. Snape was beyond perplexed now, and stared at them, agitated. “What – why do you keep doing that?”

“Uh…a Wizard, I believe…” said McGonagall, eyes trained on the list. “But…not around…”

“Please don’t tell me he was orphaned!”

“Um…aye…”

“Is our _understanding!_ ” interceded Dumbledore hastily. “Hopefully we’ve got our facts wrong about that.”

Snape studied them both, part confused and part suspicious – his Sneakoscope radar was in full spin. Something was not being said. “Are you suggesting that the timing of my return is not opportune?”

“Of course not,” retorted McGonagall stoutly. “I never would have invited you here if it was as straightforward as that.”

Snape’s brain was whirring and he held off speaking for a moment to let them fill in the gaps themselves. But they had lapsed into a strained silence. He got to his feet, preferring the sense of control it gave him, and let his wand slip into his hand from his sleeve so that he could tap it against his thigh.

“I am very grateful that you have welcomed me back to Hogwarts,” he said, “and after so long away I may have been remiss in some duties or responsibilities that arose in my absence. For that I am sorry, I wish it could be otherwise. I honestly did not expect that I would return. And yet I find myself…at ease...with the idea of resuming my post.” He paused and frowned. “But I get the strong – actually, overwhelming – impression that there is something I should know about the Burbage matter. If letting things lie for the moment is the best solution to this problem, then perhaps we should consider that. I do not wish my return to add to the burden of this child or anyone else.”

Snape’s heart had elevated a little with this speech and he concentrated on evening his breathing as he let the pronouncement hang in the air. McGonagall was looking at him almost sadly, and one last time, at his concluding statement, she looked to Dumbledore.

The old wizard gazed at Snape thoughtfully and then Nigellus spoke. “Tell him for Merlin’s sake. It’s not as if he hasn’t earned a bit of honesty.”

“Tell me what?” Snape barked instantly. His heartbeat quickened again.

McGonagall sighed, rose with deliberation and came around The Desk to put her hand on Snape’s arm. She was disquieted and looked straight at him. “Severus, all we have is…a possibility…that is all…”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Snape was worried now.

“Perhaps a mead?” said Dumbledore.

“It’s not even midday, Albus!”

“Tell me!” exclaimed Snape, beginning to get frantic.

“Sit down. I hadn’t planned on this,” said McGonagall, wondering why she’d rejected the idea of mead. She could have used one. She went back to her chair while Snape sat, perched like stone on the edge of his. His brows were drawn so close his eyes glittered through the shadow.

“Severus,” began McGonagall, picking up her wand and fiddling with it as she spoke. “I shall get to the point. There is a chance that James Servius is your son.”

She glanced up and Snape felt Dumbledore’s eyes boring into him, but all he could do was wait…wait for the bit that made sense. Wait for the bit that was serious, the bit that had induced this intense anxiety. Because the idea that he had a son was completely preposterous.

When, after a full minute, she didn’t offer anything further he said: “Is that it? Well that’s patently ridiculous. Is this some idea of joke?”

“No,” she said simply. “It is indeed puzzling, but not a joke.”

“Why on earth would you think he’s _my_ son?”

Her face revealed some misgiving. “I don’t pretend to know young Charity that well, but…to give her the benefit of the doubt…you and she had that very intense relationship the year of Sirius Black -,”

 _“What?”_ gasped Snape, astounded. _“What? What on earth…?_ I had barely a thing to do with Charity Burbage!”

“Severus!” exclaimed Dumbledore. “Do you remember nothing? I saw it all! Many of us did.”

“Remember? No! An intense relationship? Absolutely not - I barely said good morning to her!” Snape had reached actual distress now. His eyes were blazing.

“Severus – I’m sorry, but you proposed to her!”

McGonagall’s eyes almost popped out of her head at that, and she stared first at Dumbledore and then to Snape.

“You’ve got this wrong!” snapped Snape, getting to his feet, anger hot on the heels of his consternation. “You’ve confused me with someone else. This is all wrong.”

“I wish that were so…,” said Dumbledore, then arched his brows. “Actually, no I don’t. Snape, you loved her profoundly, and deservedly so. I am glad it happened, glad for you, glad for you both. This child, if he is yours, was the outcome of true love. And as you know, I am a fan of love.”

There was such conviction, such resolution in Dumbledore’s voice that Snape was forced to stop and listen, and for a moment, a split second, believed what he heard. He was so well trained to trust Dumbledore that there _would_ be split seconds when night might be day, and black might be white and evil might be good. He had learnt to trust Dumbledore’s judgement above his own, and largely because he couldn’t point to a time when Dumbledore had been mistaken or flawed. Even when he had called Dumbledore out: _“…you have used me…”_ even then, it eventuated that no, it was all part of a larger plan, a plan so great even Snape couldn’t see it: Potter wouldn’t die, _even if he had to die_. Because of love. So why – why would Dumbledore be so wrong about this?

“But - ?” said Snape, confounded. Too confounded to speak. He looked to the portrait.

“Your memory is gone,” said Dumbledore, deciding Snape was genuine. “I am not confused. But you – you have no memory of one of the most passionate experiences of your life. Something happened.”

“Obliviated?” suggested McGonagall, looking quite piqued, flags of colour in her cheeks.

“No…” said Dumbledore, “You can obliviate single, short experiences but not months’ worth of complex, integrated memory.”

“Amnesia?” said McGonagall, looking questioningly at Snape.

“I’m no healer,” said Dumbledore, “but I don’t think amnesia is that selective.”

“Over-active imaginations?” offered Snape caustically. “So far not a shred of evidence, other than the fact that I am absolutely _certain_ I had no relationship with Charity Burbage – or any other woman for that matter at that time – and yet you ask me to accept the possibility of a son I’ve never heard of?”

“There _is_ evidence of a relationship,” replied Dumbledore, looking at him levelly. “There’s testimony. My own, and Minerva’s. And you are welcome to ask Hagrid and Flitwick. They will all attest to it.”

“I too,” said Nigellus brazenly. “I remember the argument in this very office. A few in fact. Dumbledore sent you and the Burbage lady to his cottage to sort it out. She ultimately left.” There rumbles of assent from some of the other portraits.

Snape’s jaw dropped open in a very rare display of utter incomprehension. He wasn’t processing this at all well and was beginning to feel cornered.

“I don’t know what happened to your memory,” continued Dumbledore. “But I suspect it was before Charity was killed. Knowing how you felt about her, I don’t think you would have let it happen the way it did, even if it would have cost you fatally.”

McGonagall nodded in agreement.

Shock seeped through Snape from the feet up. Gravity suddenly becoming too much, he sat heavily back on his chair and loosened the buttons and cravat at his throat.

“Severus, are you alright?” asked McGonagall, rising. “This is an awful lot to take in.”

“Whisky?” muttered Snape. “I don’t feel very well.”

McGonagall hastened to the liquor cabinet, the hour unimportant now. This counted as medicinal. Snape’s face had drained completely of colour, and his eyes were unusually wide and aroused looking. A quick pour from the decanter and she brought a finger of firewhisky to him which he knocked back in a single gulp.

“If…if it is indeed true…,” murmured Snape, shaking his head slightly, “wouldn’t she have told me herself?”

And then, explosively, he remembered the Patronus.   A moth. _We have a healthy son…_ It had flown in through the window of his office, one afternoon while he was marking homework. He had never seen a moth Patronus before and he watched with utter surprise. The moth had imparted its message, and while the voice had sounded vaguely familiar, the message was too brief for him place it. And when he heard the words, his assumption, immediately, was that in some never-before-known way, the Patronus had gotten it wrong. Or the sender had. A woman was obviously trying to reach her partner to announce tremendous news, but for some reason, it had ended up in his office. He had actually said to the moth “I’m sorry, that message is not for me.” And the moth had fluttered – in retrospect, did it seem to flutter in an almost frustrated manner? – and then disappeared.

For a couple of hours after the moth had gone he was troubled in a solicitous sort of way that a father somewhere wasn’t getting important news, and then he became intellectually curious about whether Patronus’s could confuse their audience or destination, because if that was indeed possible, he would need to be aware of that when he dispensed them to the Order of the Phoenix. He found no such information, nothing had been written describing lost or confused Patronii. His final conclusion, before dismissing the whole thing entirely from his head, was that it wasn’t a Patronus at all, but some other new manifestation, as yet unannounced, probably because it was still faulty.

Head swimming, he raised his eyes to Dumbledore. “Did Charity Burbage have a corporeal Patronus?”

“Oh, um…?” Dumbledore seemed to scour his magic memory. “Yes. Yes she did. I never saw it, I remember she mentioned it. Now what was it?”

“A moth?” Snape asked dully.

“Yes! In fact that does sound familiar. Unusual you see, to have an insect.”

“Why Severus?” asked McGonagall. “Had she tried to reach you?”

“I did receive a Patronus, a moth…” he sighed shakily, staring vacantly at the floor. “I didn’t recognise it. I swear I’d never seen it before.”

“What did it say?”

“It said…we have a son, a healthy son…”

“Oh Severus!” said McGonagall, half dismayed, half delighted.

“I ignored it!” said Snape. “I thought it was a mistake.”

“When did the moth arrive, Severus?” asked Dumbledore.

“I don’t know, years and years ago…” he shook his head again. “I only remember it now because I’ve half-wondered ever since if a Patronus could get lost. And given the message had been clearly important…”

They were all silent for a minute or two; Snape massaged his head and eyes, conscious of the beginnings of a migraine. He’d never had them until the year of the Triwizard Cup. He had woken one morning in a room in the Hogs Head Inn after what must have been a blinder of a night, barely able to open his eyes for the flashing and dazzles, as sick as a dog and head in a vice. He didn’t remember the night before – presumably due to blackout or obliviation, he wasn’t sure – but by some strange fortune Aurora Sinistra had been in the main street of Hogsmeade when he came tumbling out and she had arranged for him to get to Madam Pomfrey. Ever since then he’d been prone to the headaches – he’d had a lot of them in the infirmary.

“I’m afraid I am going to need to lie down,” he murmured presently. “Perhaps I might go to the Hospital Wing? I think Madam Pomfrey has something for migraines.”

McGonagall stood making very sympathetic noises and offered to walk down with him, but he assured her he remembered the way. And then abruptly he turned and left the office, slipping his wand away as he went, ignoring the concerned comments by Dumbledore.

 


	5. The Offer

It was a dazed walk for Snape from the Headmaster’s Tower to the Hospital Wing, requiring the navigation of moving staircases which, in the throes of a – literally – blinding migraine, slowed him down considerably.  Eventually he pushed open the heavy wooden door to the ward with nothing more complex on his mind than to find a semi-comfortable place on which to lie prone and shut his eyes.

The Wing seemed deserted on entry, the vaulted ceilings and empty, steel-framed beds adding to a welcome sense of seclusion.  The warm day flooded through the arched windows and, with his wand, Snape slammed the shutters on them all and then with a groan, lay down on the nearest cot and placed a spare pillow over his head.  Seeing as Madam Pomfrey was clearly away, he would get up again in a little while and raid her cabinets for something.

It felt like he’d had respite for no more than two minutes when he heard the door to Pomfrey’s office bang open and footsteps hurry along the stone floor towards him.  So she was here after all.

“Poppy – I’m sorry I didn’t -,” he began, eyes still covered by a pillow.

“Who are you?” demanded a voice towards the end of his bed, which he recognized at the same time the voice exclaimed, “Professor?”

He took the pillow away and squinted in the direction of the voice.  “Madam -?”

It wasn’t Madam Pomfrey.  The person who was standing there, looking as dumbfounded as he felt, was Diaphne, of the Hogsmeade coven, his Healer, and she was dressed in a robes similar to the lime-green ones at St Mungo’s.

_“Diaphne?!”_

“Professor Snape!”

They stared at each other.  His brain was hurting so much he simply couldn’t do anything else.

“You have one of your migraines?” she asked with concern, recovering her composure.  He nodded dumbly; she had tended dozens of them when he was in the infirmary.  He distractedly noted she looked older – well she would, it must have been six or seven years since he’d last seen her, she wasn’t a girl anymore.  Or perhaps it was that her slightly wild auburn hair was neatly pinned up and she was carrying a clipboard.

“I’ll get the Headache Helper,” she said decisively, moving to go.  “And some Dreamless Sleep.”

“No…no, where is that potion you used at the…at the infirmary…I want some of that.”

She hesitated, her eyes wide.  “I’m sorry Professor Snape, that isn’t an approved potion, I can’t use that here.”

“But it worked!” he gasped and lay flat again before everything inside threatened to come back out. 

“Diaphne, who is it?” came Madam Pomfrey’s voice from the end of the wing where her office was.

“It’s Professor Snape!” called back Diaphne.  “With a migraine.”

A pause and then: _“What?!”_ said Pomfrey loudly, sounding utterly incredulous.  “That’s impossible!”

“Poppy…” groaned Snape, half in hopes of abbreviating the routine of shocked recognition and obvious questions.  “It is indeed I.  I though the hospital was empty.”

Madam Pomfrey hurried just shy of a run and stopped alongside Diaphne, staring at him.

“You’re alive!”  Her eyes popped and she covered her mouth with a hand.

“Technically.”

“But… _how?_ ”

The irony of the moment was not lost on him, despite the pounding pain in his head.  His life-saver stood right next to Pomfrey, Diaphne knew better than he did how it had come to pass that he was still alive, wishing he could die again.  Because his eyes were covered by the pillow, he couldn’t see Diaphne’s face, but he noticed she didn’t say a word.  Evidently she worked here now, as some kind of nursing assistant.

Rather than answer Pomfrey, he held up a limp hand and shook it slightly, the equivalent of a headshake.

“Migraine, did you say?” Pomfrey asked Diaphne. 

“Yes, there’s swelling – I – I mean, he described it as feeling like a swelling…”

“Why didn’t McGonagall tell me he was here?” Pomfrey said suddenly and with no small amount of indignation.  “Did she bring him down?”

“No Madam, he found his own way here I think.”

“My head,” moaned Snape, reminding them.

“Right.  Well let’s fix him up, he sounds terrible.  Headache Helper.  And maybe some of that Muggle Ibuprofen.”

“Doesn’t work,” muttered Snape.  He longed for Diaphne’s potion. 

“Maybe some Dreamless Sleep?” suggested Diaphne.  “He’s always better -,” He heard her check herself with a frustrated sigh.  “Migraines are usually much better after a sleep,” she corrected.

“Yes, fine.  Might as well make him comfortable.  Remove his shoes and put blankets on him…he could be here for a few hours.  I’ll contact Minerva.  I’m assuming she knows he’s in the Castle at least.”

Pomfrey hurried away to her stores, and he was left alone with Diaphne who set about pulling off his boots.  She’d done that dozens of times as well.  She used to give his feet and calves a quick massage, but she didn’t do that today and he felt a slight pang. 

“Are you comfortable?” she asked in a low voice as she placed a blanket over him then laid a cool palm on his forehead.  There was a moment while she waited until she knew they were completely alone, then she said, “Have you come back to work here?”

He was able to nod his head slightly.  Then he asked through a clenched jaw, “And do you work here now?”

“Yes.  Madam Pomfrey was hiring for a nursing aide and I applied immediately.  It meant I could return to Hogsmeade.  The Coven need a new Priestess and I have acquired enough study from the Wicce now.”

“You’re supposed to have a NEWT in several subjects to be a Healer, Diaphne.  Does Madam Pomfrey know who you apprenticed with?”

“Of course not!  And you promised never to tell either.”

“I will not,” said Snape, enjoying the cool touch of her palm.  The popping lights behind his eyes seemed to dull a little.

Madam Pomfrey returned, her heels clipping on the stone floor, starched robes rustling.  She came to the side of the bed looking down at him, and Diaphne stepped aside to give her room.  “I can hardly believe it. Where on earth have you been, Professor?”

“Another time, Poppy,” suggested Snape.

“Here.  Take this, and this.  Two of these,” she handed two small vials and two capsules with a glass of water to Snape, who downed the lot quickly and lay back down.  “Diaphne and I will be in the office. Diaphne is working here for the time being – excellent skills.  We have almost three-hundred on the roll this year and it’s too much for me on my own.” She stopped to watch him a little, but as he lay unmoving or speaking, she said, “Now to sleep.  We’ll check on you presently.”

The two Healers walked back to the Hospital Office; he heard the door shut behind them, and Snape was alone.

Behind the roaring pain was the terrible shock of earlier, a shock he couldn’t even put words to yet, but he had swiftly and firmly bolted it down in the strongest mental safe he could find.  It was like having an angry Erumpent loose in his head – approaching it again would need to be planned very carefully.  For now, it was becalmed, and he backed away from it as quietly and inconspicuously as he could, then he allowed himself to walk into the black of dreamless sleep.  He would worry about it – worry about everything – later.

 

* * *

 

 

Later seemed like barely minutes.  “Professor Snape, wake up now.”  Madam Pomfrey’s voice, and there was a gentle but persistent shaking of his shoulder.

He roused. 

“I remember he had them once or twice when the Order was reconvened.  I assumed stress was the cause,” said a voice with a soft Scottish brogue at the foot of the bed.  McGonagall.

“Yes, I remember as well,” said Madam Pomfrey.  “But not as bad as this one.  His speech was slurred and he couldn’t open his eyes.”

The migraine under discussion had, mercifully, receded to garden-variety headache proportions and he sat up in the bed. 

“How are you Severus?” asked McGonagall quickly with a stern teacher’s eye.  “You’ve been asleep three hours, we thought we better wake you in case…in case there was somewhere you needed to be.”

He glanced about looking for Diaphne, but she was nowhere.  It was almost as if he’d imagined it, like a pain-induced vision.    “Thank you,” he said, with a heavy sigh.  “Three hours?  I apologise, I didn’t mean to encroach -,”

“Not at all.  We are not in the slightest inconvenienced – only concerned.  These migraines, Severus – are they getting worse?”

He gave the slightest shrug.  “Not in frequency but perhaps…perhaps in intensity.  I didn’t know my speech was slurred.”

Pomfrey looked at him keenly.  “Professor – have you had a blow to the head at some point?  I wonder if you shouldn’t get this looked at by a Healer at St Mungos?”

He thought about the constant Legilimens invasions by Voldemort, the _cruciatus_ curses he’d been subjected to, the hundreds of experimental potions he’d tried.  Could have been anything that started it.

“Thank you, Poppy, I’ll consider that.”  Snape swung his legs off the bed and commenced putting on his boots.  “Minerva, I apologise, you must have things you need to do.  I’ll return home now and trust that I’ll hear from you?”

“Uh…” McGonagall cleared her throat and blinked several times indicating indecisiveness and said, “I – I was thinking of dining in Hogsmeade tonight and, well, there is much to discuss and, well, if you’re not otherwise engaged..?”

He looked at her steadily.  It sounded like she was asking him on a dinner date, but he knew her too well for that.  It was company she sought, not romance.  The Head position was a lonely one, this he knew all too well: Dumbledore had mastered the art of staying firmly in charge even while he maneuvered his staff around to his personal gain, keeping proximity enough just to keep isolation at bay without crossing that sacred threshold.  McGonagall was both trying to duplicate the strategy and genuinely fill a hole that Dumbledore had left.  She felt lonely.  He offered a smile and nodded.  “I am not otherwise engaged, it would be a pleasure to dine tonight.”

Awkwardness over, she became matronly again, she was standing in front of Pomfrey after all. “Very good.  It’s just coming up to four pm now.  Shall we convene at six?  I’ll meet you at the front entrance.”

“I look forward to it.”

There was still the position to secure.  She and Dumbledore had made all the right noises, but there hadn’t officially or formally been an offer made.  He would continue to put his best foot forward.

McGonagall made a little bow of her head and then swept away out of the Hospital Wing, permitting him to finish putting his boots on, then stand and straighten his jacket.  Madam Pomfrey made a show of stripping back the sheets of the bed.

“Professor Snape,” she said, and when he turned to face her she stood straight and looked at him very gravely.  “Your sudden and unexpected arrival has…has flummoxed me greatly.  Obviously it is a good thing you are not, in fact, deceased.  Yet, I was so resigned to the idea of…well, seeing you has upset the order of things somewhat.  As you know, I am a great stickler for order.  I take it that your presence here at Hogwarts indicates an intention to return.  I assume from what the Headmistress was saying…?”

“My hope is that I will be able to resume my post as Potions Master,” said Snape, as clearly and unambiguously as he could muster.

“Well then.  For all that, I sincerely hope she gives it to you.  As you can see, from the appointment of Diaphne, your absence gave rise to more support for me.”

So Diaphne hadn’t been an apparition.  “I don’t think they’ll take Diaphne from you just because I’m back.  That young lady can run rings around me anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Pomfrey said sharply, pausing from removing sheets to look at him.  “Do you know her?”

He only just realized what he’d said. “I, uh, simply meant that I would be hard-placed to offer the same sort of support that I imagine Diaphne will be able to give you, being a permanently appointed assistant.”

She cocked her head slightly, too astute to be satisfied with a concocted answer.  But she let it lie.  “Her skills are exceptional, but she didn’t study here. She said she worked at a remote hospital.”

“Hm.  Is that so?”

“Do you think it’s necessary for her to have qualifications?  She has none.”

Straight, with his hands behind his back, Snape replied: “I would answer that it depends.  If you’ll have her do little other than administer sleeping potion and change bedding, then no – she doesn’t need formal qualifications.  But if she aspires to become a true Healer, then yes, she’ll need to acquire a number of NEWTS.”

Personally he thought Diaphne had every skill a Healer with letters after his or her name had, and it was unlikely that Hogwarts would teach her anything new.  But if she was interested in going down the mainstream path of Healing, it would be fascinating to watch what she would make of Potions, Herbology and Charms. 

Poppy Pomfrey held him in her gaze for a moment, and her eyes softened, the corner of her mouth tilted up. “It is truly wonderful that you are home, Professor.”

He gave a small smile in return.

 

* * *

 

Snape used his two hours to wander the castle.  Doing so brought home to him ever more clearly the condition of it, and the extent of the damage.  His focus, during the battle when he’d been allowed to fight, had been on people, on beings – not bricks and mortar.  His ears had been filled with the sounds of a castle toppling all around him, but it had become background noise to the screams of pain that seemed to be everywhere.  And so many of them students – an appalling, tragic circumstance – how had this occurred, that mere students were brandishing wands and swords, aged seventeen if that, many dying; it was chilling.  At the time he’d been in a self-constructed survival shell, a protection that allowed him to traverse that dreadful tightrope between The Order and the Death Eaters so that neither could really see who or where he was.  It meant nothing got examined too closely.  But the price on his nerves had started to show: he had become an insomniac during those years – between the shell, the migraines and the exhaustion, his life had become a mere series of movements and decisions that compelled him from second to second, minute to minute and then at some point they became hours.  He had become truly indifferent to his own fate, because he was barely living anyway.

On one level he identified with the broken castle.  For every wall that had crumbled, another had stood intact and protected someone behind it, the castle had fought bravely as they all had: castles were built for battle after all.  But putting it back together, this old, retired ruin, that would be a labour of love.  And the cordoned off corridors, the small piles of fractured stone, twisted metal and rotten wood he encountered wherever he walked reminded him that some things, even in the Wizarding world, couldn’t be magicked.  Some things just took effort.  Will and dedication.  The castle now relied on them.

His autopilot took him to the Ground Floor and from there the Great Hall.  Whether it had fared better during the battle, or whether it had been prioritised for repair, he wasn’t sure, but he was relieved to see it comparatively intact.  He surmised that the House tables had been extended, for the walkway between the entrance door and the ends of the tables was narrower, and that they’d obviously received a spruce up at the same time, for they seemed to have a honeyed glow under the sunlight pouring into the room.  A walk along the Slytherin table, however, revealed that an eye towards tradition had ensured that years of graffiti hadn’t been erased from the wood – decade upon decade of rudimentary scarring and carving pitted the surface so that it was barely possible to find any blank smoothness.  He ran his fingers along the table as he slowly approached the High Table.

The Head’s chair was still ornate and central, and the mahogany table at which he’d sat innumerable times also had a low, polished sheen.  He mounted the steps to the dais and then turned, remembering the grim assemblies here when he was Headmaster, the leadenness he’d felt.  He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in several weeks, he’d also had a stomach ulcer, Diaphne had discovered.  He’d been in a bad way.  But right now he found being here a relief.  Blessedly quiet.

From the Great Hall his feet, with a will of their own, took him to Slughorn’s Stairs.  The pull to the Dungeon’s was magnetic.  He descended the smooth, stone steps lightly into the Dungeon corridor, then came to an abrupt halt.  Part of the corridor was segregated by yellow and black striped rope, and great sheets of burlap and timber bracing – mounted with magic nails – protected sections of the corridor wall.

Cautiously he was edging along the pedestrian access towards his old office when he heard voices.  From around the corner at the end of the corridor came two men.  He recognised them both, but struggled to recall their names.  He could tell from their attire: heavy, blue cotton shirts, workman boots and khaki dungarees, as well as thick gloves, that they were builders, and they walked up their end of the corridor talking to each other until they spotted him.  Then they too stopped.

Snape raised an awkward hand in greeting.  “Hello, uh, I was just making my way to the Potions Office -,”

“Professor Snape!” said the younger of the two men.  He was no more than in his early twenties and had a shock of dusty, straw-coloured hair and sideburns.  The face – the face was familiar, but who..?

“That’s right!” said the older man, who resembled the younger enough for Snape to deduce they were related.  “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Uh…lucky escape…” Snape replied lightly.  “Can I get to the Office from here?”

“So are you going to be teaching here again?” asked the older man, who approached and stuck out his hand.  Snape shook it, and his face clearly revealing a slightly desperate file search for the man’s name, he was told: “Amulius Fetherington.  We met a while ago – ooh, must’ve been 93 or 94 – about young Jacob here.”

Jacob Fetherington.  His first – and so far, only – expulsion.  Seeing the memory dawn on Snape’s features, Jacob’s eyes narrowed slightly and studied him.

“Merlin,” said Snape.  “You’ve quite grown.  How time flies.”

“Jacob’s youngest brother is in seventh year this year. That’s the lot of them,” said Fetherington senior.  “None of the others got expelled, I’m happy to say.”

No smile or jokiness accompanied this comment and Snape realised that the expulsion had not in any way been forgotten, let alone forgiven. 

“All Slytherins, the whole lot,” added the father.  “Professor Slughorn did a fine job.”

“Delighted to hear it,” said Snape.  “I take it you’ve been working on the rebuild?”

“Ayuh.  Been working on it for six years now – practically one of the staff!”

A forced laugh. “I see.  Clearly there’s still a lot to do.” Snape waved vaguely towards the zoned off section.

“I work for me Dad now,” said Jacob, his blond eyebrows drawn together as he stared at Snape.  “Haven’t used Muggle Studies once the whole time.”

The comment – the decision to refer to Muggle Studies – was obviously pointed, but Snape didn’t know for the life of him what he meant.  But he assumed it was no coincidence – the blank spot in his memory was plainly missing a piece that somehow pertained to Charity Burbage.  For some reason, something to do with Burbage and Muggle Studies, Snape had expelled Jacob Fetherington.

“Eh now,” muttered the father, and nudged Jacob.  “That’s long in the past.”  Then to Snape:  “You’ll remember Jasper?  He was here in 96?”

One of the many Fetherington brothers.  Snape did vaguely recall him but he’s attentions had been very distracted from teaching by then.  Same sort of thatch-like hair if he remembered.

“He wanted to fight in the Battle,” continued Amulius.  “But was forced to leave with the others into Hogsmeade.  I told him to come home, I didn’t want him fightin’ with Voldemort.  Looks like I made the right call.”

“A sensible one, I don’t doubt.  The casualties were atrocious.”

“Ayuh, got all me sons back.  We was told you were one!”

“A different kind of casualty.”

“Ah well, good news I suppose, one less of the departed.  So you’ll be picking up where Professor Slughorn’s leaving off, then?”

“I very much hope to,” said Snape, and carefully imbued a tone of finality into his statement. Fetherington picked up on it and waved his hand towards the upper corridor.

“In that case you’ll remember where your old office is then.  Just don’t cross the rope – this wall ain’t reinforced.”

Snape, with relief, nodded his thanks and with a thin-lipped smile at Jacob, turned in the direction of his office.  The two builders watched him go for a moment, then turned up the stairs. 

The office did not open to his wand.  Slughorn, understandably, had changed the locking charm.    Slightly frustrated but undeterred, he carried on to the entrance of the Slytherin Common room, and then realised he didn’t have the password.  The stone wall entrance remained resolutely shut.  He sighed heavily and returned the way he’d come.

He was going back up the stairs when he encountered none other than Horace Slughorn coming down them.  “Severus!” said Slughorn.  “Dear, _dear_ boy!” and he promptly hugged Snape with much backslapping, which was rather precarious on the narrow, winding steps.

“You are unchanged!” declared Slughorn, standing back a little to survey him through his glasses.

“You too – except you have lost a lot of weight!” Snape couldn’t help the note of amazement – or rather disbelief - in his voice.

Slughorn slapped his still ample stomach but was clearly delighted with the compliment.  “Just met Fetherington in the Main Entrance – he said you were down here.  Having a bit of a trip down the ole memory, eh Severus?”

“I couldn’t get far, between the rebuilding work and all the locks and passwords changed.”

“Come along, I can let you in,” said Slughorn, passing and inviting Snape to follow.  Snape observed that, along with a flat cap, Slughorn was in boots and carried a walking stick.  “You’re looking extremely countrified, Horace. I took you more for the urban, south of the border type.”

“Oh, I am quite converted, dear boy, I’ve just put down a deposit in the village.  I am quite determined to become a Squire.  That Mayor of Hogsmeade must retire eventually, I hear he’s a hundred and eight.”

It didn’t surprise Snape in the slightest.  Politics would be perfect for Slughorn.

Together they returned to the Potions Office and Slughorn admitted him.  It was largely as he remembered it, perhaps a little dusty.  When he rubbed some dirt off a display case, Slughorn shrugged and looked apologetic.  “Oh dear, between the masonry work and the Elvish Decree, I’m afraid the dust has quite overtaken us.”

“It is exactly as I remember it,” said Snape politely.

“I must say, Severus, when Minerva told me the news, I was delighted, I mean that sincerely, you were unsurpassed in your command of the subject.”

Snape accepted the commendation with the barest of nods and let his eyes wander the room, both nostalgia and déjà vu preoccupying him.

“And we shall be working alongside one another!”

Snape looked at him sharply.

“Oh, Minerva didn’t mention it?  She’s offered me Emeritus.  And I’ll keep on as Head of House for the time being.”

“Oh -,” Snape’s brows rose and he tried to look positive.  He didn’t mind Slughorn, he really didn’t, and Emeritus was glamorous in name only.  But Head of House….well, he’d just assumed.  “Congratulations.”

“Don’t worry!” said Slughorn jovially, cheeks reddening.  “I won’t get in your way.  You’re quite welcome to the post, mark my words.  My retirement was confirmed.”

“I’m not at all concerned,” Snape said to him, a twitch of a smile.  “I will greatly appreciate having you around while I find my feet.  And I speak presumptuously – Minerva has not yet offered me the position.”

“Oh she will, of course, I’m surprised you’re being so formal about it.  She asked for my blessing.”

“Then it sounds as if I have much to thank you for.”

Slughorn became suddenly sombre.  “On the contrary, Severus – it became clear, perhaps a little too late - what you did for us.  It is I who should be doing the thanking.”

Snape shook his head a little, dismissively.  “The time, Horace?”

“Oh! Uh, ten to six.”

“I am due to meet the Headmistress.  Thank you for…thank you.”

Slughorn merely snorted and smiled and stepped aside to let Snape pass.

 

* * *

 

There was only a few minutes to wait by the staircase until McGonagall showed.  Snape’s headache now completely gone, he acknowledged the mildest pangs of hunger and began to welcome the idea of a meal in Hogsmeade.  It was one town he’d given a wide berth during his abscondment and he was ready to see it again.

The front entrance door stood open from where Slughorn had left it.  Evening light – still strong this time of year - beat down a heavy heat outside.  Dandelion seeds drifted past like a battalion of tiny parachutists.  Snape removed his coat and undid his cravat.  There had been wizarding places in Europe which recognised the impact of daylight savings on wizards and witches and had set up secret habitats in dark caves.  During summer, the local community would flock to the welcome relief of darkness and spend twilight hours there until the moon rose for its meagre allotment.

“Ah, Severus, sorry to keep you,” said McGonagall appearing at the top of the stairs.  “Do you have any preferences about where we should eat?”

She’d turned business-like to hide her slight embarrassment about the perception of a dinner date.  And yet she’d changed for the occasion into something uncharacteristically floaty and matched it with a broad-rimmed sunhat - it took years off her.  He decided not to mention it, however, for fear of drawing attention.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  “Is it much changed?  What do you recommend, since I haven’t been there in years?”

“Well,” she smiled.  “I’m sure you’re keen to reminisce about the Three Broomsticks.  Plus, it’s a bit darker.”

“Darker is good.”

They set off and made a brisk walk of it, McGonagall regretting – halfway – her floaty-appropriate sandals instead of boots and they apparated the remainder.   At the early hour, the Broomsticks was largely empty, and Snape had only moments to cast a quick look around the main street of Hogsmeade before McGonagall had gone through the front door of the Inn and called for Madam Rosmerta.

There was the usual exclamations of surprise and disconcertment from Rosmerta at Snape’s arrival, and then they were seated at a table well away from the window, each with a whisky, Snape’s coat hung on a nearby hook.  A few minutes of perusing the menu and giving their orders to a still flustered Rosmerta, then McGonagall took a quick gulp of her drink and said, “Severus, I know you won’t be surprised when I tell you that Dumbledore and I have discussed it, and we think you’ll be perfect for Potions Master.  It almost seems silly to mention it.  But – well, I am bound by certain procedures and admin, I can’t escape it.  So please, excuse my ridiculous formality by asking you whether you’d care to accept?”

Surprisingly, Snape felt a weight lift.  It had appeared in the bag, but it was still a relief to have it confirmed.  “Of course I accept, Ma’am.  Thank you.”

“Ma’am?”

“You are Headmistress.  I felt better calling Dumbledore sir.”

“In what century were you born, Severus?  It’s 2006.”

“I prefer it,” he replied stubbornly.

She laughed, the whisky was quick on her, she was so slight.  “As you wish.  You see, I have reason for the scepticism.”

He raised a brow.

“I’ve thought long and hard about this.  When I say that, I mean about an hour.  I want you to be Deputy.”

Both brows were raised. 

“You have the capacity.  Slughorn retains Head of House and…well frankly I have no Deputy and your experience is…well you’re overqualified if I’m perfectly honest but…I urgently need a 2IC, Severus.”

He modestly considered his whisky.  “This is unexpected -,”

“Oh you don’t need to do any of that false thing.  Severus, I need us to work as a team, I need you to know everything and I need to trust you with everything.  I know Dumbledore did.  I want the same.  The offer is twofold, and it’s my final offer.”

He smiled at her.  The only person he could see himself getting along with as well as he did Dumbledore would be McGonagall.  “In that case, if you insist.”

“I do.  And now, raise in toast please: to the new Potions Master and Deputy of Hogwarts – Slainte mhath.  And to all who sail in her.” After the requisite sip, McGonagall said, “I will send the paperwork to you by owl.”

Snape raised his tumbler and toasted, and then they were joined by Madam Rosmerta who brought them their first course, which was garlic mussels and bread.

After eating a bit, Snape’s rumbling stomach starting to appease, McGonagall said, “I must say, you seem very composed given your news earlier.  Migraine much better?”

“Yes, fully recovered.  But as for the news, it’s simply too hard.”

“Too hard?”

“I don’t know how to process it.  I simply can’t fathom it.  I – I’ve put it away.”

“Put it away where?” asked McGonagall in genuine surprise, her eyebrows skyward.

“Somewhere safe.  For now.”

“Well I hope you haven’t thrown away the key, for I have been in touch with Candace Peacock, who is guardian of the young Burbage, and who is due to get in touch with him in mere days.  He’ll have received his letter by now.”

“Candace Peacock?” Snape echoed, thinking hard.  “Isn’t she with the Ministry?”

“Aye, the Accidents and Catastrophes Department, she was Department Manager for a while but stepped down.  She took on Charity Burbage’s case, which is why she voluntarily looks out for the boy.”

“Charity Burbage had a _case?_ ”

McGonagall looked openly at him for several seconds and shook her head slightly.  “We really must find out what happened to your memory.”

“If something did.  I’m still not convinced about that.  You’d think I’d know if something happened to my memory.”

“Not necessarily at all,” said McGonagall as if it were quite simple.

Snape busied himself dipping his fingers and wiping his hands on a serviette.  “Alright then.  So what did you tell Ms Peacock?”

“Madam to you, young whippersnapper.  I told her you were alive and – mostly – well and coming back to work.  And then there was a strange ruckus at her fireplace because, presumably, she hit the floor in a dead faint.  When she came back to the Floo, we agreed on next steps.  I of course explained the difficulty of the situation, that being your complete lack of memory and latent denial.”

“Good.  And next steps?”

“She is going to break the news to the laddie – (he goes by Servius by the way, we were at cross purposes for a while because I kept referring to him as James) - and to his grandparents.  Then we agreed it would be best if you two made your acquaintance before school starts.”

Snape pondered on this rather cynically, glad at least that insult wouldn’t be added to injury in having a son named James, while Rosmerta – who kept looking at Snape as if he were a zombie – cleared their mussels and brought them a bottle of wine.

“Made our acquaintance?  And how do you expect that to go?  Rushing into each other’s arms?”

McGonagall swirled her wine around in her glass.  “Well you can be as acerbic as you like, Severus.  He will remain your son.  Perhaps you should try and make the best of it.”

“I hope someone from their party will be bringing some kind of evidence.”

“Funny you should say that.  Candace did propose a Muggle solution which is paternity testing.  I said perhaps we should start at the beginning and have a good hard look at him.  I’m sure if there’s a resemblance to be had, it will be obvious by now.”

There was a strange shimmy in Snape’s insides at the prospect of meeting someone who might resemble him.  “Well Papus save him if he does.”

McGonagall cast him an admonishing look.

Their meals arrived and they ate in companionable silence.  Around them, patrons were arriving, the regulars taking their usual places and starting on their first tankards of Butterbeer.  The evening light now almost horizontal, Rosmerta was going from window to window and shuttering them, and blasting trapped bluebottles and bumblebees with her wand.  “Hot one today, eh lads?” she asked and there was a raucous response of agreement up at the bar.  One regular, who’d just arrived, sidled up and thrust a posy of wildflowers at her, which she accepted with a coy flourish and pinched his cheek as if he were Sleepy of the Seven Dwarves.

“At any rate,” said McGonagall, dabbing her mouth, “Candace will be in touch with you to set up a time and date.  I thought it should be somewhere neutral and she said she had planned on taking Servius to Diagon Alley for his school books and robes.  Severus, I think it would be a wonderful bonding opportunity for you to help him purchase his school supplies.”

“Seriously?  My first meeting and I’m to be financially beholden to him?”

“We’re talking a few books, Severus.  You know you like bookshops.  It would be nice for you both.”

Snape rolled his eyes and thinned his lips, feeling hopelessly confused about this runaway news that torpedoed into his world at around eleven that morning.  How could it be that he woken this morning single and childless, and now, less than twelve hours later, had apparently fathered a son as a result of an allegedly intense relationship with a woman he barely knew.

Taking some metaphorical steps back, as if to retrace them and validate that they did in fact lead to this place, he said: “Ma’am – I mean, Minerva – please explain how it is that this news has come to the fore now, and not at the time when Charity Burbage died?  I mean, this Servius, is eleven.  Therefore he was born in 1994.  I was around, she was around.  Why didn’t she tell me?  Why didn’t anyone else know then?”

“She did tell you,” said McGonagall bluntly.  “She sent you the Patronus.  And I’m assuming, since you had no idea who it was from, that you didn’t reply.  She must have surmised you wanted nothing to do with the child and decided to raise the bairn herself.  I understand, from what Dumbledore has told me, she left Hogwarts because she knew that your role as double agent would make a relationship with a Muggle-born untenable.  She had to go into virtual hiding herself.”

“She was Muggle-born?” Snape repeated in disbelief.  “The whole things sounds so unlike me.  Then when she died, that was 1998.  Again, I was still around.  Why didn’t Candace Peacock come to me then?”

McGonagall waved a fork, and as soon as she’d finished her mouthful, replied “The height of the war, Severus.  She probably thought, given you’d murdered Dumbledore, you were a Death Eater.  Would you hand a three-year old over to a violent Death Eater?”

That was a good point.

“And then of course, quite simply, everyone thought you’d died.  And now the time is right – well the news has broken in the space of six hours.  Nobody was _trying_ to keep this news from you Severus, not even Charity.  Servius has grown up in the belief he’s an orphan.  Perhaps you should stop thinking about your own grievance so much.” She cocked a supercilious brow at him.

Snape was smarting a little.  And it didn’t seem to help that no angle he took on the matter provided any way out of it.  When it became apparent to McGonagall that he had descended into brooding, his eyes shadowed in the half-light of the cavern and his food being shoved around his plate, she moderated her tone a little and said, “I can understand the news being a shock.  But Severus, why are you so resistant to the idea?  Why aren’t you happy to learn you’re a father?”

“I don’t like surprises,” he answered gruffly.

“Not even good ones?”

“Why are you so sure this is a good surprise?”

She tilted her head reflectively.  “Well…the widely accepted view is that being able to bear healthy children with someone you love is a good thing.”

“I don’t love Charity Burbage – I didn’t even know her.  And now this is dumped on me.”

“Well…there must have been some agreement to the idea at the time, even if you don’t remember it.  I mean, she wasn’t the reckless type, I’m assuming there was some level of parental planning involved!”

Snape sat back in his chair and swigged his wine.  He all but folded his arms obstinately. “Then she didn’t try very hard to tell me if this child was planned.  One Patronus?”

“Och. True.” 

A pause in the conversation, while Snape’s anger and resentment began to morph into something much closer to the truth of the matter, at a much more primal level.

“What if he’s horrible?  What if I hate him?” he asked sullenly and took a long gulp of wine, welcoming the dulling of his nerves, the capsizing of his care.

“You mean like Harry?”

“Yes.  Well, I mean, there won’t be any James Potter in him, but one thing I have learnt about myself is that I am well and truly capable of loathing a child.”

“But Servius is your own flesh and blood!  There will be instincts that kick in -,”

Snape’s eyes finally lifted and he looked at her.  “You think it’s different with your own?”

McGonagall could see that Snape wasn’t purposefully and deliberately intent on disliking or rejecting Servius, but that he was badly afraid.

“I don’t have children, Severus, but from years and years as a teacher, I’ve learnt a lot about what parents go through.  As have you.  And though many of them really struggle with their kids, for the vast majority their instinct won’t let them abandon them.  Yes, I think it’s different with your own.”

McGonagall reached across the table and patted his hand as he succumbed to the yawning chasm he’d been skirting around since the beginning.

“I don’t know how to be a father.”


	6. The First Impression

## The First Impression

 

For two days, Snape took refuge at Spinners End, occupying himself with nothing more mentally or emotionally taxing than sorting through his belongings in readiness for Hogwarts, reading the newspaper (absolutely nothing happening unless you counted the highly variable temperatures as Britain tried to decide if it was having a heatwave or raining) and gazing out his front room bay window while his thoughts spun unremittingly like a hamster wheel.

During daylight hours, nothing new presented itself.  His thoughts revolved around the possibility of parenthood, what that meant, what that meant if he hated the child, what that meant if the child hated him, and what unfamiliar responsibilities might suddenly be visited on him that he’d have to attend to. 

The second circle of questions, which rotated in the opposite direction, and of which the resolution would have direct ramifications for the first circle, related to the mystery of his missing memory.  He had resigned himself to the concept that he must accept testimony as evidence, for he could discern no motive for multiple, trusted people to collude in a conspiracy that achieved no gain for them.  It had been Phineas’ Nigellus’ declaration that sealed it for him: the old Headmaster had been stalwart in his support of Snape and was not the type to subscribe to silly games.  If Nigellus said Snape had been involved with Charity Burbage, then such a liaison must have occurred.

So why could he not remember it?

The detective in him drove Snape to study the various forms of memory loss and memory charms, consulting the appreciable reference library in his home.  Amnesia, he learnt, would not explain the selectivity of the memories he was missing – Dumbledore had been right.  During the time he had apparently had a relationship with Charity Burbage, he recalled other occurrences with ease.  He remembered a lot about the audit, he remembered classes, Quidditch games, shopping in Diagon Alley, Lupin and making the Wolfsbane, looking for Sirius Black – the only memories he didn’t have were any with he and Charity Burbage together.

 And so he deduced magic had been involved.  The only approved memory charm was Obliviate.  The strength or extent of it could be varied, but it tended to cover short-term events, and again, was not so selective.  Gilderoy Lockhart had been an obvious victim to a powerful Obliviate and he was reduced to a gibbering idiot – not the case with Snape.  Bertha Jorkins was a similar victim to a poorly wielded obliviate, but the results did not fit with his own experience.  The Memory Modifying Charm created _new_ memories, and unless someone very dedicated had performed that spell on almost all his colleagues, including portraits, then it was highly unlikely.

A Pensieve allowed one to remove selected memories but did not eradicate them.  They were more for a three-dimensional recollection, permitting others to share the memory with you, a kind of magical hologram.  But the memory remained, the memory that one _has_ a specific memory was retained.

He knew there were Dark Art practices around eradicating memories, and one he found, which he’d known about before, and which he thought might fit the bill, was _Memorium Delens_.  But it was highly illegal, and had been so for two centuries, due to the sometimes-cataclysmic after-effects, and that was if the patient/victim was not driven mad or killed during the ritual.  It was pagan magic, and even if he’d wanted to try it, he wouldn’t know where to find someone to perform it.  He couldn’t imagine circumstances so dire that he’d have wanted to risk it.

Perhaps his mind had been heightened into a kind of frenzy over the matter as a whole, for in his bed the first night home, his initial sleep was light and his half-dreamlike state was feverish.  Then part-way through his eyelids flew open as if he’d been fully awake the whole time, and he was transported to the night at Malfoy Manor, sitting at the long glossy table to the right of Voldemort, his arm bumped by the massive python sliding up over the Dark Lord’s shoulders, and Charity Burbage was suspended by invisible bonds, rotating, occasionally sobbing, and imploring him.

Had she then known he had no memory of their relationship?  Their son would have been walking, talking, perhaps attending a preschool.  She’d raised the boy alone for three years, thinking Snape wanted nothing to do with him.  But if she hadn’t known his memory was lost, she would have been expecting him to act.  She would have been waiting for their history together to compel him, to save her: the mother of his only child.  What must she have thought that he sat so impassively and waited for her to die?  What must her last thoughts have been, thinking he cared so little, worse, cared more for himself; the only sensation greater than her terror must have been the knowledge she was forsaken.  He’d abandoned her to die, this woman he had loved uncommonly.

His heart hammering, Snape threw back the covers of his bed and staggered to the bathroom, where he turned lamps on brightly and stopped to rest his hands on the edge of the cold vanity basin and breathe in heavily, then he ran icy water from the taps and doused his face, again and again.

Could you experience guilt for something you didn’t actually do?  He’d committed many crimes in his life, Snape was no saint, he was neither good nor bad.  He had an unusual capacity for hope, and unusual levels of resilience. But he was a deeply flawed and deeply scarred individual, who tried, when possible, to err in the interests of doing right.  He’d thought, at the time, that he was working for The Order and that his job that evening was to foil any suspicions the Dark Lord was obviously harbouring.  He’d thought he’d passed a test.  His indifference to the plight of the Burbage woman was proof of his loyalty, he’d thought he’d done well.  He’d shut down and bolted away so many emotions and opinions he was little more than a robot – the secret of his success.  And in comparison to wielding the wand that killed Dumbledore, well Burbage was inconsequential.

In fact, it turned out, in deed or in omission, he had allowed to die the two most important people in the world to him.

Three, if Lily was to be counted.

The shaving mirror on its extendable arm swung round and glared his reflection at him and Snape smashed it away.  He wandered out of the bathroom and for lack of anywhere else to go, returned to his bedroom, where he fell back on the bed, chest heaving, eyes wide and staring into the dark.  There had been no help for Snape with his post-traumatic stress, those services did not exist for Wizards, and so he was left to himself to spend the remainder of the night processing on repeat the times he had let innocent people die.

 

The following night came mail.  A barn owl, and it arrived after he had dozed off in his armchair, still holding a tumbler of whisky resting on the arm, the book he’d been reading up-tented on his lap.  The owl, having nowhere to perch and nowhere to enter, slammed bodily into his front window and landed in a daze on the pavers outside the front of his house.

At the crash, Snape lurched several feet into the air, spilt his whisky, and was on his feet, wand in hand, in seconds, before even he was fully alert.  A cautious look out the window revealed the doleful owl and he opened the front door to receive the scroll of parchment, and offered a biscuit to the deliverer who took off in disgust.

The parchment was his employment contract, which was a duplicate of a template with only the variables pertaining to his offer written in the blank parts.  It was for, as promised, Potions Master and Deputy Head, and contained a salary, some allowances, residency on site during term, various forms of leave and provisions towards his own pursuit of further qualifications.  The salary for a Deputy wasn’t too bad, and it would be nice to add to the coffers again.  He hadn’t received a reliable income in nearly a decade.

There was, in addition to the contract, a letter from McGonagall, which invited him to take up his rooms as soon as was practically convenient, and before the 14th August which was when the full faculty was expected to be back at work and preparing for the new school year.  Term One commenced on Monday 4th September, and the Hogwarts Express arrived at 6pm on Sunday the 3rd.  She was having the first staff meeting on Monday 14th at 10am and would there make formal introductions of new (and returning) teachers.

She wrote that she had notified Sir Byron of Snape’s return to service, and new role, and as she had informed both Candace Peacock and now the Board of Governors, it was incumbent on her to also inform Kingsley Shacklebolt before he found out the news through other agents. She had duly sent an owl.

The flywheel of his re-entry into wizarding civilisation was now spinning fast and freely.  The School, the Ministry and even an undisclosed son were all that was required to set the grapevine on fire.  These few remaining nights may be his last taste of sublime obscurity.

 

The very next day he packed his case of scant possessions, clothing and personal effects, ensured the Spinners End house was tidy, empty and secure, and then discreetly disapparated, arriving at the Hogwarts Gates close to 11am.  He tried to open the Gates, expecting resistance, but to his amazement they swung open quite willingly.  Either the gates recognised him or times had changed – ever since Sirius Black and the Dementors, security had radically restricted movement in and out of the school grounds.  Perhaps it was also now possible to apparate directly to the Front Entrance – that would certainly be convenient.

He had shrunk his case and carried it easily up the windy path, past Hagrid’s hut and to the courtyard, and looking up noticed a team of hard-hatted builders perched on scaffolding and hanging beams at various places along the front face of the castle, engaged, he presumed, in the work of restoring the damaged sections.  He could see brief flares and arcs of green light where magic could be used, but in equal amount came the slightly jarring plinking of metal on stone and hammering. 

As he entered the great oak door, McGonagall was descending the marble staircase hastily.  “Ah, welcome back Severus, thank you for agreeing to come so quickly.  You have your things?  Good.  Let me walk with you to your quarters as there is immediately business for you to attend to.”

“What is it?”

“Can you please take a Floo visit from Candace Peacock in your Office at 11:15 – she wishes to discuss your introduction to Servius.”

“Oh.” He had expected school related business.

Slughorn was in the Potions Office when they arrived, and he took Snape directly to his former quarters.  The rooms, which had been spartan during Snape’s occupation, now boasted plush, busily decorated rugs, unusual modern art pieces on the walls, and instead of simple gas lamps there were elaborate sconces.  Snape looked around, still standing in the doorway, quite at a loss. 

Slughorn took his speechlessness for rapture.  “Oh these old things,” he said, grinning broadly.  “I can’t take them with me, won’t go in the new place at all.  So I thought I’d leave them for you.  Brightens the place up a bit, don’t you think?  It was terribly grim when I took the rooms.”

“Oh.  Oh, I see.  Well…thank you.”

“I found a couple of things belonging to you.  I put them aside, wasn’t sure what to do with them.  Big pile of books in that trunk over there, and…what else…,” Slughorn wandered over and lifted the lid of the trunk.  “Some quills that look a bit expensive.  A lot of stuff in the medicine cabinet.  Oh, this bubble bath…”

“Bubble bath?”

Slughorn’s eyebrows lifted.  “Yes.  Definitely not mine.  Not my scent. Ha ha.”

“I don’t use bubble bath.”

Slughorn chortled.  “Well maybe you had someone using the bath who did.  Eh?”

Slughorn tossed the bottle of bubble bath to Snape, who caught it with ease in one hand.  The minute the plastic bottle touched his fingers, he was almost blinded with flashes of memory.  He saw the bottle standing on the corner edge of the bath, dim light, cloudy – no, steamy, the bottle was new, there were bubbles, someone using the bath…

The memory was gone.  He stared at the bottle.

“You alright, Sev dear boy?  Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Where did you find this?”

“Back of the cupboard.  Bathroom.  Normal place for bubble bath.  Are you alright?”

Snape felt a twinge in his skull, and for a second the room tilted, and then he was fine again.

“Yes, uh, sorry -,” he put the bottle down on the kitchen table, then glanced up at the clock that used to be on the kitchen wall but discovered it missing.  “Um, sorry Horace, I have a meeting – what was the time?”

“You need a timepiece, my boy.  About ten past eleven.”

“I’ll just leave my trunk here,” a quick _engorgio_ restored his case to normal proportions.  “I need the Office if you’re not using it?”

Slughorn walked him next door to the office and opened the door for him, and Snape entered, taking his usual place in the seat behind his desk.  Thank Merlin Slughorn hadn’t replaced his wonderful chair.

Within minutes, Candace Peacock was seeking admittance via Floo, and she stepped out of the fireplace with the merest of sweeps to her very severely drawn back hair.

“Professor Snape,” she stated in decisive tones, extending her hand upon seeing him.  “It is simply marvellous that you are a survivor.”

He nodded, trying to hide his impatience with this routine.

“I have spoken to the Minister directly about it.  He’ll be in touch.”

“As he wishes.”

“And Harry Potter, he too plans to contact you.”

“Potter?”

“Aura Office.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He came to see me.  He’s quite…what’s the word…?”

“Horrified?”

“Not at all!  Surprised, but bigger, elated is too strong…”

“Well I shall figure it out for myself when I meet him.  You wanted to see me about the…about…Servius?”

“Yes!  Can I…?” she indicated one of the chairs facing the desk and he gestured with his hand, then reassumed his position opposite her.

Sitting from this vantage point, he could see that Candace had, like everyone, aged a little.  She had rather striking grey streaks through her helmet of hair, but still wore a smart, smooth suit with the MoM insignia at the left breast.

“Professor, I have met with Servius and his grandparents at his home since he got his letter for Hogwarts, and I took the opportunity to tell them about you.  I hope you understand the necessity for that?”

“Quite understandable.”

“They were…well, I’ll be frank, unhappy to think you’d been alive all this time.  Not because they preferred you dead, but because they thought you were neglecting your duty to Servius.”

“I had no idea about…about him.”

“Charity’s mother claimed that Charity had told you about him.  Via Patronus.  She had a moth, you’ll remember?”

“Yes, she did indeed send a moth, but I didn’t know it was from her.”

“You didn’t know she had a moth Patronus?” said Peacock, scepticism etched deep into her tone.

“Something has happened to my memory.  I have no recall about the relationship with Charity Burbage at all.  I haven’t since 1994, as far as I can tell,” Snape explained, looking very openly at her.

She stared at him.  “Pardon?”

He repeated himself, and explained everything he knew or suspected.  He tried to incorporate an indisputable air of honesty into his voice.  What this seemed to signify, he was realising himself, was the worst: that Charity Burbage had _not_ in fact been aware that his memory had been erased, it evidently had happened to him or by him without her involvement.

“Well this is going to be hard to explain,” said Candace, her eyes scanning the desk in front of her as if it might reveal and answer.  “The grandparents are _au courants_ – they won’t be familiar with the idea of memory being magically interfered with. But all the same, plenty of Muggle fathers go missing from their children’s lives, it doesn’t preclude a future relationship.  I’ll take the angle that you were unaware of Servius but as you’re here now, you’re prepared to start at the beginning.”

Snape’s mouth went dry.  This all seemed to be coming very real.

 “And have they any evidence that he is in fact mine?”

She frowned a little at him, somewhat impatient and disappointed with him for having any traces of denial.  “Well as far as I can see, there are three pieces of evidence.  The first is a birth certificate that they can bring with them on the first visit.  He is has your surname and you are named as the father.  Charity switched his name informally to Burbage after…after Dumbledore died.  It was a protective move, you understand, even though Charity struggled to believe that you had actually done it.  The second is a matter of simple logistics: the opportunity, let alone motive, for Charity Burbage to fall pregnant to another man at the time was virtually non-existent.  Even if she were that type of person, which she wasn’t.   You haven’t been privy to conception and birth dates as I have - there was no intimate relationship resumed between Charity and her ex-husband – he refuses to have anything to do with Servius.  And lastly, the physical resemblance.  He looks like you.”

Snape processed her answer, lingered on the idea of a birth certificate naming him as the father, oddly touched that Charity Burbage did so.  It pointed to a kind of ownership and pride in the relationship, that she’d had no reticence, no compunctions about boldly naming his part in the creation of her child, or hesitations that the child should know.

“What’s he like?” Snape asked hesitantly. 

“Servius?  Oh, typical eleven-year-old really.  Nice looking… takes after you quite a lot.  But…Muggle raised.”

“Is he…likeable?”

She paused, then said carefully:  “I think…once you get to know him…”

Her reservation was instantly recognisable, and his reaction was mixed: part incipient dread at the idea of forming a relationship with a brat, and part defensiveness that she was judging his child.  This second part caught him by surprise – were instincts rising to the fore already?

“And so have you made plans with the grandparents about a meeting?” Snape asked.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow!?”

“They are available tomorrow to travel into London.  I shall meet them at Charing Cross Station and take them to the Leaky Cauldron.  If you could join us there?”

“Why there?”

“Professor McGonagall suggested to me that you would take Servius for his school supplies…?” she looked confused at the prospect of a misunderstanding.  “I really do urge you to undertake this, Professor Snape, you are vastly qualified to do so.”

“Yes, yes, fine, the Headmistress did tell me that,” he responded a little irritably.  “So what time am I to meet you at the Leaky Cauldron?”

“They can be there for 10:30.  The earlier the better, give you plenty of time to spend with him.”

A shimmering was starting in Snape’s left eye – he knew exactly what this heralded.  The pain began in his temples and would soon join in the middle, right behind the orbital cavities.  Involuntarily, he put the heel of his palm over his eye and Candace’s brows raised.

“Are you alright?  Headache?”

“Yes, uh, they can be quite severe.”

She cocked her head curiously.  “I wonder if they’re related to your memory loss.”

 

Once Candace Peacock had Floo’d out of Snape’s office, he headed directly for the Hospital Wing.  The vicious throbbing in his skull was already underway, but he knew it would get worse than this before it was over.  If these migraines were going to be a feature of his teaching day, he was going to have a serious problem.

He was hoping for Diaphne.  The ward was much as it had been the other day, but rather than lie down on a cot, he forced himself forward to Pomfrey’s office.  He wasn’t sure who to expect, so he held off calling anyone until he could see was present, and was entirely relieved to discover Diaphne in Pomfrey’s office alone, sitting in the patient’s chair and doing something administrative with patient files.

“Diaphne,” he muttered, “Diaphne, urgent please.”

She looked up startled.  “Professor!”

“I have another migraine,” he said, and shut his eyes.  “But I want your potion.  I can’t afford to sleep for three hours.”

She stood and came before him, eyes wide but deep concern creasing her brow.  “You look terrible. I’m sorry Professor, I don’t have any of that potion here at Hogwarts.”

“Can you make some?”

Her brows lifted almost clear of her forehead.  “Did you say ‘make some’?”

“Yes.  In the Dungeon.  Can you remember the recipe?” He groaned, as glass shards sliced their way up the inside of his neo-cortex.

She started to shake her head, “Oh, sir, I don’t think -,”

“You can.  You can do it.  You are a Healer, remember?”

“But the rules say -,”

“I’m giving you an instruction.  I am Deputy now.” He swayed where he stood, and she put down the files she was holding quickly, as if preparing to catch him.

“I think you should like down, Professor.”

“I will, in my quarters.  While you’re brewing.”

She glanced about anxiously, and identifying doubt, he seized it.  “Come with me right now.  I’ll give you access to the brewing chamber.”

“But Madam Pomfrey…?”

He turned and strode out of the ward, concentrating hard on seeing through the retinal fireworks, nausea starting to make him breathe heavily.  She followed quickly, although it may have been more concern about a highly marginal patient that compelled her.

Through the largely empty castle she followed him straight to the Dungeon Corridor and he went directly to his rooms and lay down on the bed, Diaphne behind him, her movements circumspect.  “Oh these are nice quarters, Professor Snape,” she declared on entry, and if he hadn’t been so close to death he might have checked to see if she were serious.

“Diaphne, the brewing chamber is between the Potions Office and Potions Classroom, just down this corridor.  There is a password: _Vis medicatrix naturae_ , can you remember that?”

“The healing power of nature,” she said.

“Uh, yes, very good,” he replied, a little surprised.  “There is a store cupboard in there, but in my office there is also a storage room underneath.  Take whatever you need.”

“Are you quite sure about this, Professor Snape?  What if I’m discovered?  What shall I do?”

“Come and get me.  Now hurry.  I can’t think much anymore.”

“Do you want some Headache Help-?”

“Go Diaphne, make the potion.”

He sank into a reverie of pain.  Once or twice, she came back to his bedside, his doors having been left unlocked for precisely this reason, so she could consult him.  She was insistent, at one point, that he had no store of _Nux Myristica_ , but he thought Slughorn might have stocked it with other distilled spices and proved correct.  _Ptolemy_ supply was just short of the right amount, but he told her to wing it.  And then she was gone for at least an hour.

Somehow, beneath the pain, he started to worry that something had happened to her, and was just on the verge of forcing himself to his feet when she reappeared, coming to his bedside, and she was holding a goblet with a spill cap on it.

“Professor,” she said, her voice light with pride at her own achievement, “I think I’ve done it.  It looks the same and smells the same.  I was just working from memory, but I ended up making so much of it for you at the hospital that it must have imprinted more than I realised.”

He struggled upright and accepted the goblet, and without even his usual precautionary checks, drank the whole of its contents in three gulps.  “Tastes the same,” he murmured, sinking back against the pillows, and through slitted eyes, appraised her.  “Well done.” 

She had no appreciation of how rare or fulsome this approval was for him.

She smiled and gazed at him with that rather devoted air she had, took up his hand and stroked it.  “Poor Professor.  These migraines are getting quite wicked.  I feel I should contact my Aunt.”

“Do you think your Aunt might know something about them?”

“Yes.  And…and if they are getting worse, then she may have advice on…on how to reverse them.”

The potion was taking effect already, steel bands were loosening, glass knives receding.

“Are they a side-effect of something you did while I was in the infirmary?”  He already knew they weren’t; he’d had them to a lesser degree as far back as the Triwizard Cup.  But the way she talked…it was as if she thought the Aunt knew something.  “If you think the Wicce may have a cure for these, then I need to know urgently, Diaphne.  I can’t go back to teaching like this.”

She nodded slightly.  “I’ll contact her from home.  I can’t do it here.  Dear Professor, will you be alright now?  I left some potion remainder in the cauldron in case you need more soon. I need to go back to the Hospital Wing.”

“Thank you, I will store that away.”

She leant over then, and kissed the top of his head.  As she’d used to.

Snape grabbed her by the wrist tightly and looked hard at her, unsmiling.  “Diaphne, that was then.”

“Professor?  It was but a -,”

“I know what it was.  We are here now.  We are working here,” he paused.  “That was then.”

“You mean it doesn’t matter now?  It was nothing?  I was good enough for you then but not now?” she gazed at him, her greeny-grey eyes pools of perplexity, that faint regional accent of all Hogsmeade locals rising to the surface through her anxiety.  Somewhere between Scots and northern Europe.

“It was nearly seven years ago.”

A furious blush suffused her neck and cheeks.  Her eyes were shining.  “I don’t care.  I feel the same about you.”

And with that, before he could answer and crush her further, she fled his rooms.  When the door clicked shut, he closed his eyes, remorseful about the coup de grace, regretting that he’d hurt her when she had done so much for him, wondering what it was about Hogwarts that it seemed to effect such turmoil in his life.  But also, he reflected on her words.  _I feel the same about you_.

 

 It was Friday 4th August.  The July heatwave was over, but it was still dry and sunny in London, good conditions for shopping on Diagon Alley.  Snape had arrived earlier than the appointed meeting time in order to visit Gringotts.  He had needed to reactivate his account which had been suspended after several years of non-use and withdraw funds as he was assuming the cost of Servius’s school supplies would be down to him.

While he’d been busy, the nervousness he felt had simmered insistently.  It had been the same the night before and afforded him only uneasy sleep.  But now, as he sat alone at a table in The Leaky Cauldron, careful to select one that had enough chairs, annoying the bartender by drinking nothing stiffer than a glass of water, he was palpably jittery.  The water in his glass wallowed a little as he raised it, hoping to ease the dryness in his mouth.

He didn’t have to wait long.  He could see the door from his seat, and when it opened and Candace Peacock came through, his heart lurched.

She waved briefly at the sight of him and turned to people behind her and urged them through, often a necessity when bringing visitors to The Cauldron for the first time, particularly Muggle-borns, who thought they were being coaxed into a derelict hovel.

Snape stood, eyes fixed on the door.  Candace was followed by two elderly Muggles dressed for a summer day-trip, and a boy.  Servius.

As they all approached his table in a confounded daze, the grandparents in particular having the appearance of having emerged from behind fur coats in a closet, Snape stared at the boy.  Servius was staring at him.  Neither smiled.

Candace said, “Here we all are!” with the slightly awkward false cheer of a tour-guide.  “Mr and Mrs Burbage – this is Professor Severus Snape.”  A short interlude of salutations and hand shaking.  Then Candace said, “And Professor – this is Servius.  Servius – this is your father.”

He was an attractive child, that was true, Snape had seen enough eleven-year olds to be able to discriminate finely.  The boy’s eyes were his own – black, almond-shaped, critical.  He had a thick mop of black hair, straight, that required frequent flipping out of his eyes.  Smooth olive complexion and even features: Charity’s genes had apparently taken a lead in the necessary places.  He was a respectable height, with the lean, coltish lankiness that so many of his age sported, devoid of any muscular definition.  Dressed in jeans, overly embellished trainers and a hooded sweatshirt with a nonsensical logo on the front, there was nothing in his looks or manner that would have caused a casual eye to notice him in a British crowd.  Nothing in his appearance - in the expensive clothes he wore, in the professionally tended hair, in the even, straight teeth - indicated any form of struggle or strife.  What Snape found difficult to warm to was an attitude broadcast loudly of utter contempt.

Snape put forward his hand and Servius took it limply then withdrew it immediately.  Snape frowned.  Had the child been a student, he would have corrected that swiftly.

“Servius, say hello to your Dad,” said Mr Burbage.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” returned Snape and felt like saying that it was enough for today, goodbye.  “Have you been to Diagon Alley before?”

“Nup.”

Candace said, “Servius goes to a Muggle school and, well, it was a bit of surprise, the letter from Hogwarts wasn’t it?”

“I’m not going,” said Servius, glaring at Snape.  “I like my school.”

“You would be going to a different secondary school anyway.” Their first argument, Snape wondered.

“Yeah, with all me mates.”

“My mates,” said Mrs Burbage.  “ _My_ mates.”

“I hate Scotland,” added Servius.

Snape was flummoxed.  He’d never met a child who wasn’t interested in the prospect of magic.  He turned to Candace.  “You did… _explain_ Hogwarts to him?”

Candace raised a discouraged brow.  “Most certainly.  In detail.  Including Quidditch.”

“You’re aware your mother was a teacher at Hogwarts?’

“Mr Snape,” interjected Mr Burbage quickly.  “We’ve talked to Servius at length about his mother.  I’m afraid the idea of attending the school away from home is a bit of an adjustment for him.  How about we have a drink?”

“Great idea,” said Candace.  “Butterbeer for everyone?”

“Oh, uh beer?  It’s not even 11am,” said Mrs Burbage in consternation.  “Perhaps just a lemonade for me.”  She glanced about her furtively at a table not far away with some wizards puffing on pipes.  “Are you still allowed to smoke in here?” she whispered.

“Lemonade for all of us,” said Mr Burbage stoutly.  “Oh, em, sorry Mr Snape, you go ahead.”

Snape’s eyes met Candace’s and he said.  “The same for me.”

She went to the bar to order the drinks and Snape sat back woodenly in his chair.  Servius slouched down in a seat opposite him and reached over to the roomy tote bag belonging to his grandmother.  From within it he brought out some kind of electronic device, which he proceeded to grapple with.

“Well this is certainly a bit of a shock!” said Mr Burbage.  “We’d only just started recovering from the news about Charity when we were told that you had died as well.  It’s been hard on Servius, I can tell you.”

Snape cleared his throat.  He’d wondered how to answer to this inevitable question and decided to take Candace’s angle.  “I apologise.  I was unaware of…of Servius.”

“Charity told me she’d told you!” said Mrs Burbage immediately, looking more alarmed than anything.

“She may have.  I’m afraid I didn’t receive the message.” This was only a slight deviation on the truth.

“Do you know what happened to Charity?” asked Mrs Burbage suddenly, eyes round and desperate, and she leaned towards him.  “We had nothing.  No information.  Nothing to bury.”

Servius looked up from his device.  His eyes were unfathomable.

Snape scanned frantically around for something to say, the image of Charity Burbage suspended and rotating, dominating his inner vision accusingly, daring him almost to speak the truth.  As she had.  But he said, “Uh -,”

“Martha,” said Mr Burbage.  “I’m sure we have lots of time to get to know Mr Snape a little better.  This is Servius’s day. Eh?  Here’s our lemonade.”

Candace brought back a tray with five tall glasses.  She handed out the drinks then sat down next to Snape and smiled brightly.  It was a strange look on her.

Servius said to her, “He doesn’t know what happened to my Mum.”

“Boy!” said Mr Burbage, looking abruptly very stern.  Snape got the impression a mask had slipped slightly.  Mrs Burbage jumped in.  “This is hard for all of us.”

Candace looked uncomfortable and cocked a brow, opting to take a long drink instead of answering.

Snape said to the grandparents, “I don’t know how much Professor Burbage, I mean Charity, told you about the war.  Your daughter was one of the fallen.  But she…but she has been honoured for her service, she was always dedicated to teaching about peace and tolerance.”

Mrs Burbage listened to him enrapt, hanging on to every word.  She seemed mildly comforted by his measured tone and carefully selected words.

“Good lord!” said Mr Burbage suddenly, and he leaned over to nudge Servius.  “Look!”

Turning to look, Snape saw the bartender had come out from behind the bar with several trays of drinks.  Using a hover charm, he was directing them in front of him towards a busy table at the back of the pub.  It was workaday magic, literally, but it struck him how much Servius was going to be uninitiated.  He saw that Servius had shrugged, even though he discreetly watched the trays being delivered, the glasses being hovered to each drinker, and then he held up his gadget.

“My Gameboy isn’t working.  Ma, I need new batteries.”

“Oh, Servius, remember I told you about electricity,” said Candace.  “Those games won’t work in the Wizarding world.”

Servius scowled at her, then snorted under his breath. “Wizarding world!”  He dropped the game onto the table with a loud clatter.

Snape stared at him and Servius attempted to hold his eyes but dropped them.

“Servius is very good with computers,” said Mrs Burbage.  “Does Hogwarts have computer studies?  I’m quite keen for him to build on his strengths.”

“Didn’t you just hear what Candace said,” blustered Mr Burbage.  “No electricity in their world.  Charity must’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“You were the one always asking why you couldn’t phone her!”

Snape said moderately, “No, I’m afraid no computer studies.  Computers aren’t necessary for magic.”

“What!” said Servius.  “How’m I supposed to find stuff out?”

“The way people found stuff out before computers.”

It was hard for Servius to find room for any more derision on his features.

Snape breathed in hard.  “Perhaps Hogwarts isn’t for Servius.  It’s not compulsory, after all.  I know Charity would have wanted it, but I imagine she also wouldn’t have wanted Servius to be unhappy.”

He had no idea what Charity did or didn’t want for her son.  But given what he had uncovered about her, he couldn’t believe she would have been indifferent to his wellbeing.  Clearly he’d be miserable at Hogwarts.  And frankly, there would be no pleasure for Snape from the boy attending.

But Mr Burbage sat upright.  “Servius is going to Hogwarts because, as you say, Charity would have wanted it.  She said so right from when he was a baby.  And Servius has a lot of magic, I think it would be good for him to learn how to use it properly.”

“A lot of magic?” inquired Snape.  It was the first positive thing he’d heard.  “Such as?”

“Pa…” said Servius looking irritable and a touch embarrassed.

“Well he can slam doors shut without touching them.  And once he made a pigeon fall out of the sky.  And he can tell if an egg is rotten.”

Snape’s brows furrowed.  “All those things are incidental…”

Candace said subtly, “I have seen Servius hex someone.”

Snape looked sharply at her.  “Hex someone?  What do you mean?”

“It was on the train.   A passenger was being loud and obnoxious and Servius stuck him to his seat.”

Servius smirked and snorted laughter at the memory of it.

“The unpleasant passenger reached his stop, but when he tried to stand up, he couldn’t,” Candace continued.  “He was stuck, stuck fast.  It wasn’t enough magic that any Muggle suspected anything paranormal, but the passenger missed several stops I believe.  The hex wore off in a short amount of time.  But Servius was definitely responsible.”

Snape looked to Servius, who shrugged.  “He deserved it. Wanker.” Mrs Burbage smacked his knee.

“How long ago was that?’

“Couple of years ago,” said Servius, and flipped hair out of his eyes.  “I’ve done that sort of thing to loads of idiots at school.  What did you call it?”

“A hex.  Like a curse or prank magic.”

“Yeah.  That’s the one.”

Snape was staring again.  His son’s natural ability was in hexing and jinxing.  Was that even a thing?  Normally a child exhibiting their first uncontrolled magic would move objects about – usually to their advantage, such as a crude _accio_.  Sometimes the latent magic manifested as a result of extreme, heightened emotion, in which case objects would be randomly assaulted, or people pushed.  Other times it would be in inadvertent self-preservation: throwing something between themselves and an antagonist, removing themselves from an attack, or doing something to the attacker.  Snape had never heard of uncontrolled magic taking the form of a methodical, calculated or intentional plan. 

“Well then,” he said uncertainly, thinking back on his own teenage days, part revenge, part self-defence.  By eleven, he’d been tutored by his mother and had mastered many of the fundamentals that first years hadn’t even heard of, especially Muggle-born and Muggle-raised.  But hexes and jinxes?  That had taken study.  “Well then, that’s something.  But hexing and jinxing is not allowed at Hogwarts.”

“Oh no, don’t worry, Servius will be good,” said Mr Burbage.  “I just think it’s the best place for him to learn how to use his magic…properly.  And safely.  He’s been getting into a bit of trouble at school, you see. His mother, she enjoyed the company of people…more like herself.”

“Hogwarts is not a…an _asylum_ , Mr Burbage.  It’s a school,” said Snape.  He sensed Servius’s grandparents were looking forward to a bit of respite from their challenging grandchild.

“See.  Doesn’t want me to go,” muttered Servius, tossing his head to shift his hair.  He seemed to have no idea what to do with his hands, and drummed his fingers against the edge of the table.  Instead of sounding glad or defiant, he took a denunciative tone, his suspicions having been confirmed.

“But Mr Snape,” said Mrs Burbage.  “You need to get to know your son.  I know you didn’t get the message from Charity, but she always talked about how…how happy you would be when you could get back together.”

Snape lifted his eyes to the older woman, saw the sincerity there.  Charity Burbage had held a future for them in her mind, had been biding time, had nurtured a plan for them as a family.  Snape glanced back at Servius and was freshly assaulted at the dissonance of being a stranger in his own history, and apparently his own future.

Servius wasn’t looking at him.  He was staring daggers at the table top.

“Oh, nearly forgot,” said Mr Burbage.  “Martha – have you got that birth certificate for Mr Snape?”

Suddenly reminded, Mrs Burbage blinked rapidly and she went to her bottomless tote bag and withdrew an A4 envelope which she handed to Snape.  Candace murmured to him, “I asked them to bring it.  But look at Servius.  Do you really need any more proof?”

Snape didn’t really.  But he removed the certificate from its envelope anyway and glanced it over.  The wax stamp was real, and he read his son’s name: James Servius Snape.  Then his own name as father: Severus Snape.  And then the mother: Charity Margaret Burbage.  He looked it over a few times, this rather innocuous piece of Muggle parchment with its red, round stamp of authenticity, adding James Servius Snape to its British population, registering him, identifying him, acknowledging him.  According to Muggle bureaucracy, Servius existed whether Snape chose to accept that or not.  And if Snape did not accept it, then the onus of proof was on him.

His hands had recommenced their trembling, and it took two attempts to slide the certificate back into the slim envelope.  He handed it back to Mrs Burbage, but she said, “Would you like to keep it, Mr Snape?  You’re his father after all.  We are only guardians of Servius, we haven’t adopted him.”

Servius was glaring at him.  And it occurred to Snape that not once, apparently, had the child questioned whether Snape was really his father.  Angry at him, certainly, rejecting him, yes, it would appear.  But not doubt, so far.  Snape realised how insulting it would be to have your own flesh and blood repeatedly challenge – object to – your validity, something you’d had no control over.

Snape couldn’t help a frown, but he looked at Servius, at the burning black eyes of the boy, and said, drawing the envelope back towards himself, “Thank you.  I shall keep it.  I shall take excellent care of it.”

 


	7. The Owl and the Wand

###  The Owl and the Wand 

 

After lunch - which was rather early but a distraction was called for as conversation started to get stilted and awkward - arrangements were made for Snape to take Servius for his school supplies. It was agreed that Mr and Mrs Burbage would amuse themselves in London for the remainder of the day, and Candace would Floo back to The Leaky Cauldron at four-thirty to escort Servius to Charing Cross Station. Snape and Servius therefore had four and a half hours alone together.

Snape didn’t think ever in his life he’d spent that much time alone with a solitary child. Not even detentions lasted that long. He concentrated hard on not revealing his dismay, but Servius did not concern himself with such politeness. Upon hearing the agreed itinerary, he rolled his eyes extravagantly, slumped down bonelessly in his chair and groaned.

“Here’s some money,” said Mrs Burbage, ferreting out her purse and Snape raised his hand.

“It’s alright, thank you Mrs Burbage, I am happy to pay for the purchases.”

“Enough for an ice-cream or Coke?”

“Your currency won’t be accepted here and it’s not worth the time to exchange at the Bank. Your gesture is appreciated, but I believe I’ve a few years to make up for.”

Mrs Burbage looked doubtful, but offered a small, bewildered smile as if hardly believing someone else was taking the trouble. “If you’re quite sure? He has a few things you might need, here I’ve packed a rucksack for him…there’s his pre-paid mobile in there in case you need us for anything, our number’s in there, and his supply list from the school…”

Indeed, a rucksack was produced which Snape had assumed belonged to Mr Burbage since he’d been the one carrying it. Why hadn’t Servius carried his own bag? Why was it they thought an eleven-year-old wouldn’t survive a few hours without them needing to be hailed?

Seeming to sense a sour note, Candace hastily stood and commenced ushering the two grandparents towards the door. In tour-guide mode again, she started chattering about all the interesting things they could occupy themselves with while in the city. At the door, the three waved back at Snape and Servius, still sitting at the table, and then rather keenly – it seemed to Snape – exited.

As soon as they were alone, Servius levelled his eyes at Snape. “Don’t think you can boss me around, old man.”

Snape’s jaw almost dropped. “I beg your pardon? What did you just call me?”

“You heard. You may have knocked up my Mum, but you’re not my Dad.”

Thunderclouds rolled across Snape’s countenance. This young pup had _no_ idea. Without speaking, without removing his glittering eyes from the boy’s, he got out his wand from his robe and gave Servius a jolt with it, using the same spell with which he blasted mice. Shock treatment on children was a practice heavily frowned on amongst modern wizards and witches, but Snape was not one of them. He wouldn’t do it as a teacher, but – he discovered – being a parent was entirely different.

“WHAT THE…!” yelled Servius, and having reacquainted with his skeleton, sat straight upright. Snape was gratified to see an expression on his face that wasn’t surly or dismissive. He looked outraged.

“You’ve had that coming since you walked in,” said Snape. “I don’t want to be here any more than you.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Not in Muggledom, no. They don’t have wands. But here I _can_ do it. Perhaps you meant I _should not_ do it.”

Servius simply stared at him, mouth ajar. “I’m going,” he said at length, and dived into his rucksack. “You’re mad.” He pulled out his mobile phone. Predictably, no service. Then he glanced around, but everyone in the pub ignored him. “This geezer just electrocuted me!” he announced loudly, to completely deaf ears.

Snape waited.

Servius got to his feet. “Call Candace. Get Candace here, I’m leaving.”

“Sit down.”

“No way!”

“I am not calling Ms Peacock or anyone else. You are going to calm down and then we are going to behave nicely and get your schoolbooks,” said Snape with forced control.

“Or what? You’ll electrocute me like you’re training a dog?”

“Are you especially slow? We don’t have electricity here. It is impossible for me to electrocute you.”

“Then what did you do with your wand?!”

Snape looked interested. “So you recognise a wand?”

“Yeah. Course. I’ve got my Mum’s wand.”

Incomprehension knitted Snape’s brows. How had Charity Burbage’s wand ended up with her son? She wouldn’t have had it with her while incarcerated at Malfoy Manor…had they confiscated it, but somehow it had gotten seized?

“How did you come across that?”

“She left it at home when she went into London for work. The day she went missing. She never had it with her.”

Snape was astounded. Who _was_ this woman? Who went anywhere without their wand?

“Where is it now?”

“I’m not showing you. I’m leaving, remember?” Then Servius hitched his pack over his shoulder, flicked his hair out of his eyes and aimed for the pub door.

Calmly, Snape picked up his wand and cast an _arresto momentum_. “I can do this all day,” he sighed.

Struggling to free himself, Servius finally attracted the attention of other patrons, who were turning in their seats to look at him.

“Help me!” called Servius to them. “This bloke is trying to abduct me!”

Tom, from behind the bar, came towards him. “Everything alright, Professor?” he asked.

“Perfectly fine, thank you Tom.”

“New youngster for Hogwarts, Professor Snape?” asked another patron, an old-timer with a pipe who Snape vaguely recognised from the apothecary. He was joined by his companion who said, “Professor Snape? I thought he was dead?”

Snape stood, approached Servius and undid the spell. Then he held out his hand. “Give me your supply list. We’re going shopping. Now.”

 

Snape shopped. Servius trailed behind, pretending not to be interested, but this was Diagon Alley after all, and no uninitiate would be unable to completely avoid goggling their eyes or dropping their jaw. Plenty of times when he thought Snape wasn’t looking, Servius pressed his nose against a shop window, or dragged his feet past a street vendor with magical wares.  

Under the late summer sun, Diagon Alley was like a clover field full of bees, thrumming to a thousand transactions underway. The shops were bowed under the weight of irresistible goods like nectar, their bell-mounted doors tinkling as they were alighted upon by shopper after shopper, delighted customers almost drunk on the joy of retail staggering back out onto the cobblestone street to try their next source of satiety. A considerable number were school-aged children, and certain shops such as Flourish and Blotts were almost too crowded to enter, as next term’s scholars spilled out onto the street. Snape realised he didn’t recognise any of their faces. His time away had seen an entire generation of students ascend the ranks and graduate without ever experiencing the joys of Snape as their teacher. As he was not dressed in his academic robe, he in turn did not generate any particular notice from the students or their parents, and his business was only briefly interrupted now and then by a long-standing Diagon Alley proprietor exclaiming at his return. Such as Madam Malkin.

“It is _never_ Professor Snape!” she declared, as he entered the Robes shop with Servius in tow. She had been serving another customer who was instantly – and inconveniently – abandoned as Madam Malkin strode up to Snape and pitted her five foot one against his six foot two. “ _Where_ on earth have you been?”

“How do you do, Madam? I see you are busy -,”

“Someone told me you were dead! It said in The Prophet -,”

“No. I’m afraid the paper was mistaken. As you can see, I am perfectly alive, and also well.”

She cast him up and down. “I must say Professor Snape, you are terribly thin. But it suits you well enough. And are these some distinguished grey hairs? You are growing into quite the gentleman. Last time I saw you there was that lovely lady as well. Are you married yet?”

The discarded customer, a mother with her first-year daughter, decided that if they were to be left suspended mid-robe they may as well be entertained in the interlude, and also waited expectantly to hear the answer.

Snape cleared his throat and murmured, “Perhaps I should come back later –,”

“So not married,” concluded Madam Malkin, and tutted her disapproval loud enough for the people on the street outside to hear. She turned back to the customer, who, being an adult female would immediately understand the need for reproach, and said, “He has been a confirmed bachelor for two decades now. But he had this gorgeous young lady with him that, if I remember rightly, you invited to a Christmas party, and I thought at last the Professor will be spoken for. I expect you were grumpy with her!”

Snape was hearing this story as newly himself as the lady customer. He was heartened to hear Charity Burbage described as ‘gorgeous’, although his blurry memory of her never would have drawn that association, however he knew Madam Malkin to be an outspoken judge and critic who was not necessarily liberal with her praise, so he took the compliment as writ. As to a party - he had no memory of that at all. He could hardly believe it was himself she was describing – he, inviting a gorgeous young lady to a party? He’d be one of the Marauders next.

Servius, who’d been half-listening and half-sighing with boredom, said suddenly, “Did you take my Mum to a Christmas party?”

With ears for gossip more highly attuned than a bat, Madam Malkin turned her focus on Servius, who until this point, had been mostly concealed behind Snape. “Who’s this?” she demanded.

Snape felt ensnared. He considered simply bolting, but before he could gather his wits, Servius, seeing an opportunity to add to Snape’s discomfort, abruptly came forward with a rather supercilious air and extended his hand to shake Madam Malkin’s. “I’m Servius Snape,” he said provocatively. “The Professor is my Dad. And the lady you were talking about was my Mum. But she died when I was three and Professor Snape completely ignored me. I’ve been raised by my grandparents. I just met this man who reckons he’s my Dad for the first time today.”

Madam Malkin’s eyes and mouth became as wide and round as dinner plates and at a loss for words – for it would be impossible to improve on such a pure nugget – dragged her gaze from Servius to Snape. The young girl being dressed for school began to get irksome, but the mother shushed her quickly so that she could listen.

Snape muttered: “I’m sorry to have bothered you, we may return later.”

With that, he all but shoved Servius back out the door, directly onto incoming customers, and then grabbing Servius by the collar, dragged him up the street as if an urchin until they found a gap between two stores, into which he thrust Servius and then rounded on him.

“What are _you_ hoping to achieve?” Snape asked icily through clenched teeth. “Because I think there might be one thing we agree on. Neither of us want you to go to Hogwarts. But you are enrolled, your grandparents are expecting you to attend, and there are no plans or arrangements for you to go elsewhere. So resign yourself to it and if you can’t be pleasant then keep your mouth _shut_!”

Belligerence blazed from the boy, and he yelled, “Fuck off! You can’t tell me what to do. I’m not going to your stupid school!”

Fetherington was brought to mind, all the other upstart little monsters whom had been dragged kicking and screaming into shape in Slytherin when he’d been Head of House, he even remembered the squalls with Potter. But he’d known Servius only a few hours, and he couldn’t discipline or suspend him let alone throw a jar of cockroaches at him. So he withdrew his wand and promptly jinxed Servius with a mouth-cleansing spell. “Every time you use language like that with me, this will happen,” said Snape coldly, as bubbles started to emerge from Servius’s mouth.

Servius, his eyes horrified, opened his mouth to speak: “This is abuse!” and out gushed a froth of white, bitter, soapy bubbles, some drifting merrily away into the sunshine.

“We have three hours left to endure,” said Snape. “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll gag you as well. We are going to get every last item on this list and you are going to cooperate.”

Servius was trying to wipe the bubbles away, his mouth wide as he coughed out more, his eyes frantic. “Do you understand?”

A single nod. Snape undid the jinx and Servius spat out the last of the soap, and when he looked towards Snape, he saw tears standing in the boy’s eyes. “What? Crying? But you’re so tough.”

“This completely sucks!” shouted Servius, a last bubble flying free, but distress and humiliation made his voice crack. “You’re an arsehole!”

Snape made as if to raise his wand again, but in truth he’d been called far, far worse than that, and he could tell that Servius didn’t quite have the same ginger in him. At the sight of his wand, Servius backed away and Snape lowered it. “I’m going to report you to my Ma and Pa. They’ll never let me attend Hogwarts with you in it!”

“I think they’ll be delighted to let me deal with you.   It was abundantly obvious they’ve had enough of you. It’s for your mother they persevere.”

Servius’s lip quivered a little and he didn’t reply.

“Give me the list.”

The tri-folded letter was produced, and Snape perused it, mentally ticking off items they’d already procured. Books and a wand were reasonably important.

“Flourish and Botts, then, let’s get this over with,” he muttered, stalking away and Servius wandered after him.

 

The merchants of Flourish and Botts, being the preferred supplier to Hogwarts for a millennia, had got this routine well and truly organised. It was the Deputy’s job to contact the store when the master enrolment list had been finalised, and provide the headcount for each year, plus any deviations to the book list. As early as July, F&Bs began collating ‘new entrant’ convenience packs, and to a lesser extent, the remaining forms’, although the second-hand trade in books thrived with each successive year.

Snape intended to purchase a new entrant pack for Servius and entered the shop only to find himself at the back of a sizeable queue. The store’s shelves, through which the queue meandered, had been stocked especially with textbooks to aid the lost and bewildered, particularly _au courants_ , who may have been attempting to manage both the first foray into high-school level paraphernalia, as well as the baffling subjects and book titles that went with learning magic. On a nearby shelf, Snape noticed a book he hadn’t seen before, a hardback with a cover bearing an aerial photo of a busy, modern London street, the pavements shoulder to shoulder with people, the street alight with lamps, shop windows and the headlights of cars. The large, bold title of the book read: _The Other Side_ , with a subtitle: _A Practical Reference to the Muggle World_. The author was Charity Burbage.

He reached over and grabbed one to look at, flipping through the pages, immediately impressed with the layout, the imagery, the non-threatening approach to the subject matter. Throughout the text, the student was posed questions to consider, some practical, some more conceptual, all directed towards an understanding of how the differences between the two worlds arose. There was a chapter on genomics, with colour plates which had been introduced in later editions, presumably after she’d died. They showed a picture of the double-helix twist of DNA taken under a powerful microscope, and a graphical depiction of how the genes were mapped. Then a graphic of a family tree, demonstrating how heterozygous genes were passed down from generation to generation.

Servius, who had been idling amongst the shelves while Snape queued, sauntered up carrying a book: _100 Hexes and Jinxes That Changed the World_. “Can I have this?” he asked. Snape nodded distractedly, then showed the textbook to him. “Look. Your mother wrote this.”

Servius took it and read the cover, then thumbed through the pages. After a moment, he issued an approving grunt, followed by the first positive words Snape had ever heard him say. “That’s not bad, that, is it?”

“It’s on your supply list. That will be your textbook for Muggle Studies.”

“Do I really have to do a class on Muggle studies? I am a Muggle. It’s like, I never got why I had to study English when I speak it already.”

“You’re not a Muggle. You were Muggle raised. You’re a part-blood.”

“A what?”

“You have magical hereditary to an indeterminate extent.”

“So, what…these weirdos are my people?”

A teenager standing in the queue behind Snape coughed laughter.

Under his breath, Snape replied, “It’s hard to take in, but, well, yes. And don’t call them weirdos. They think exactly the same about Muggles.”

Servius’s books were purchased and shrunk into a bag, which, once they were back out on the street, Snape promptly passed to Servius. “Put these in your rucksack. Bring the lot with you on your first day. Have you a trunk?’

Servius spluttered laughter. “Not last time I looked.”

Rolling his eyes, Snape said, “I meant a travelling trunk. A big case. You’ll have a lot of things to carry.”

Jostled by impatient pedestrians, Snape consulted the list again. “It says you may have an owl or a cat or a toad. Well you’re not having a toad. What good is a cat? An owl can be useful. Did you have need of an owl?”

“Is that why there’s so many owls flying about?” asked Servius, pointing to the assortment of birds equipped with mail from the post office who swooped not far overhead.

“They are messengers. The school has owls, it’s not essential. Right, cauldron we’ve got, then it’s uniform and a wand.”

“Wouldn’t mind an owl.” Servius looked non-committal and cuffed the ground with his trainer, but there was no mistaking his words.

Snape paused to consider him. “They take looking after.”

“I can do that.”

“Have you looked after a pet before?’

“Nup.”

“Then I’m not sure an owl is the place to start. Ask your grandparents for a goldfish and see how you get on.”

Servius scowled murderously and snapped, “I can look after an owl! It’ll be my mate!”

Owls did indeed attach to their owners, provided their owners took care. Snape discerned it was in fact the first thing Servius had asked for, and he had spied the boy patting an owl earlier, very gently and reverentially.

“We’ll go to Madam Malkins, and if you apologise and behave like a civilised wizard, I will buy you an owl.”

Servius’s eyes lit up, and when he realised Snape had observed that, he quickly shut them back down.

The bribery worked. Madam Malkin, rather more reserved by the second visit, equipped Servius with standard and winter uniforms, supplied Snape with academic and winter robes, and then took and order for more frock coats. While there, Snape purchased several white shirts and, feeling a little contemporary, decided against any more cravats. Perhaps it was time to let them go. Madam Malkin attempted to leverage this rare and unexpected wedge and talk him into updating his entire look, but that was too much for his overwhelmed sensibilities.

Servius had been compliant and cooperative throughout, and when Snape was presented with him donned in his black Hogwarts gown, he had an odd moment, deciding that Servius was by far the handsomest boy he’d ever seen in the uniform. What he said was: “Yes. That will do.”

Honouring his word, they went from Malkin’s to the Owl Emporium. Snape had never been inside before, his interests not much running to feathers and fur, and he took position within the shop at the intersection of two shelves, one stocking various forms of owl supplements, and the other displaying ties and tags, and permitted Servius to browse at will. There were some very excited children in the shop, they never having encountered an owl at close quarters, and the proprietor was busy keeping his stock in trade, literally, unruffled.

Presently Servius slouched over and stood before Snape and said, “I think I’ve found one I like.”

“I see. And what makes you like it?”

“He’s nice.”

Snape sighed. “Well, that seems as good a qualification as any. Let’s have a look at it.”

Servius took him to the other end of the store, the passage of which required circumnavigating a treacherous reef of enclosures filled with all manner of predatory birds and their accoutrements, to a nondescript metal cage suspended on a hook in which sat an owl blinking, well, owlishly, and not doing much else. Snape wasn’t sure what he’d expected – perhaps for the bird to be reciting 8th Century poetry in the classic? – but he was surprised Servius had selected a specimen so otherwise unremarkable.

“Is he a good owl?” asked Snape, not sure of what features would commend one. The bird was mottled, very by-the-book looking, would certainly meet the dictionary description of the type. He had quite startling dark yellow eyes rimmed with coal-black feathers.

“I think he’s awesome,” murmured Servius, and Snape was momentarily distracted by the sight of his son looking rather enamoured. It smoothed out his features, his eyes had a gentler glow, there was a trace of a smile which suited him. Could it be that all Snape men were better for having love in their life?

“Have you consulted the keeper?” asked Snape, knowing the answer would be negative, and summoned the proprietor, who sized up the situation immediately and, without encouragement, launched into the business of selling his owl.

“Oh yes, he’s a good owl for messaging, good British stock is the short-eared owl. He’ll fly for you during the day, which is an advantage. No fear of distance. Good at medium weights. Happy eater.”

“Is he a good companion owl?” asked Snape.

“He’ll bond as good as the next owl. He might take off a couple of times a year for a bit, they’re nomadic see, but he’ll come right back if you let him settle. First owl?” he asked Servius, who nodded. “Well he’s a cracker of a starter owl, I say, perfect for students. One of my first owls was a short-ear. Lovely little things.”

He reached in and took the owl out of his cage and got a nip for his trouble. “Here, have a hold. He’ll let you know if this is a match.”

And as Snape watched, he could see that Servius was garnering every cell in his body to somehow will this owl to match with him. He looked almost panicky at the prospect of a rejection. Snape began thinking of things to tell him if proceedings went unfavourably, but he needn’t have worried: the owl, perched on Servius’s forearm, shook his head rapidly, blinked some more, and hunkered down. As good as a love-note.

“Ah, there you see,” said the proprietor cheerfully, as if this was the first time it had ever happened in his shop. “Made in heaven. This bird’ll keep you happy for at least fifteen years. Excellent investment.”

Servius looked at Snape, his eyes gazing feverishly at him, and Snape recognised the heat, the passion instantly; he saw himself. He knew that he would never need to even mention the word ‘owl’, that Servius would take the creature and devote himself to it, obsessively.

Knowingly, Snape said to the keeper, “I am happy to pay for the owl. Please furnish my son with the appropriate receptacle and other necessities, including, if you have it, instructions on care and upkeep. He is a novice.”

The proprietor nodded enthusiastically, then said, “I can have everything arranged for you to pick up and take away in a few days’ time.”

“We can’t take it now?”

“I’m afraid not, sir, no. With the rush on for owls at the moment, registering him with the Post Office will take at least twenty-four hours to process, and as I’m sure you know, he needs to be calibrated to pass through the Hogwarts anti-apparation charm, plus I’m fresh out of cages. Shall we say Tuesday?”

Servius looked crestfallen. Snape said to him, “It’s only a few days. You can come back on Tuesday and take him home. I will make the arrangements.”

The boy was too intent on preserving his image to allow his forlorn expression to linger, so he nodded and continued to pat the owl while Snape paid his 15 galleons for the bird, and a further 15 galleons for a good quality cage and other avian needs. Children were expensive.

Snape’s nerves were starting to fray a little, and once back out on the street, in which the flow and eddy of pedestrians seemed to be as strong as ever, he told Servius he was going to stop for a cup of tea (regrettably he couldn’t go back to the pub), but that the teashop wasn’t far from _Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes_ if Servius wanted to go for an explore by himself. He thought this might cheer Servius up a little, as the boy had been sizing up the extravagant joke shop almost continuously since they’d stepped into the Alley. Servius readily agreed, and Snape gave him a few galleons to spend (he doubted the Weasley’s would take advantage of Servius’s obvious unfamiliarity with the currency), then selected an outside table at the teashop so that Servius could find him again easily.

Once alone, Snape thought about the textbook. It would be something to look at while he waited, it may even reveal some clues about its author, and he picked up the rucksack that Servius had left with him (wisely, the twins had introduced a ‘strictly no schoolbags’ policy for their store) to find the _reducio_ ’d books. Instead his fingers encountered a wooden, oblong box which he knew immediately from long experience would hold a wand.

Without really stopping to think whether he was invading Servius’s privacy or not, he took out the box. It was carved cedar-wood, attractive, feminine. He lifted the hinged lid and found silk lining, and within that, a pale-coloured wand, figured with a ribbon curl grain and a modestly carved grip. He recognised the wand immediately, in a line-up, he’d point it out confidently as the wand belonging to Charity Burbage. Something at the sight of it flipped open files in his head, and when he took it out of its box, at the touch of it, he had a memory of himself inside a room, searching under cushions and clothes, and finding this very wand hidden beneath a pink towel that had been inexplicably tossed on a table. He knew exactly what this memory was: he’d been sent to Charity’s room to retrieve her wand, collect some things for her. The feelings were intense, a strong rush of affection at her absent-mindedness, he knew he’d left her somewhere, that she was waiting for him and that he was impatient to return.

The memory was dimming. He desperately wanted to stay there, he gripped her wand tightly in hopes it might reveal something else, squeeze out the last drops of that giddy, elated feeling he’d had, the sensation that he was connected to some kind of emotional rubber band and that all he wanted to do was snap back to her.

He was rewarded with a second memory: he’d _accio_ ’d this wand, he saw it lift and fly towards him. It had tugged itself free of a coat – her coat – to obey the call. The coat had been draped over the back of an armchair, the chair was in a dimly-lit room, a large room, the Archive.   When the wand in his memory came to his hand, again, a flooding of heightened emotion, desire was in there, longing, possessiveness.

Snape dropped the wand back in its box, and allowed the memories to fade and seep away, bringing himself back to the present, his cup of tea on the table before him going cold, hearing the hum of the crowd walking past him in the street. He realised he’d stopped breathing, and now his chest quickly restored oxygen levels and his heart-beat, spiked by adrenalin, fell into a steadier rhythm. There was no doubt now, he knew to the core of his being, he’d not only loved Charity, it had been with a passion; that he’d proposed to her did not now seem so improbable. And for reasons he didn’t quite understand, he was awash with relief and happiness and something akin to affirmation.

He placed the folds of silk lining back over Charity’s wand, dropped back the lid of the box and returned it to Servius’s rucksack. He had the strangest sensation that she was out there somewhere and somehow, through mystery or magic that mortals were not allowed to know, had seen the whole thing. But she wasn’t angry, she was glad too, she had touched him.

Feeling tears spring to his eyes, Snape gave burning focus to his tea, blinking rapidly, trying to re-summon his cool, remote self before Servius returned. And when he saw his eleven-year old loafing back through the crowd on the street, hands in his pockets, black hair lifting with each movement, he seared a whole new memory into his mind, the image of this person he and she had created. How he wished he could remember her the way a lover did, so that he could see her in him, the way he’d seen Lily in Potter.

Servius approached him from the street and stood there. “That was pretty cool,” he said. “But I didn’t buy anything.”

“Probably wise. The Weasley twins were profit driven.”

“What?”

Snape smiled and shook his head. “Never mind. Ollivanders?”

“What’s that?”

“We need to get you a wand.”

“I’ve already got a wand.”

“You mean your mother’s? That’s not the same. You need your own.”

“Why. Won’t hers work?”

“Let’s go talk to the man himself.”

Snape rose from the table, and feeling surprisingly calm and rested, headed off in the direction of the wandmaker’s with Servius trailing behind.

 

Ollivanders hadn’t changed in his eight years away – time was nothing to this shop, it bounced off it, the Wandmakers had become impenetrable to age, degeneration or atrophy. Perhaps it was preserved somehow by the pure aggregation of magic it contained. Snape entered with Servius and, as he’d expected, they had the shop to themselves. This was not because Diagon Alley was emptying of customers – on the contrary, it was as busy as ever – but because, mysteriously, the store never admitted more than one customer at a time. It was as if an invisible, all-seeing appointment diary had organised customers unknowingly to visit at a particular moment, however spontaneous they felt they’d been.

Servius glanced about, his expression blank but for the merest trace of recoil at the dusty, mustiness of it. The bell had tinkled on entry, and even though the store appeared empty, Snape knew that it was simply a matter of waiting now, Ollivander would be with them soon enough.

The rows and rows of boxed wands followed parallel lines to a vanishing point obscured by shadow in the dim lamplight, the shelves upon which they were stacked had turned grey with age. Carved into the wood on the front face of the counter was some archaic symbol Snape hadn’t noticed before, and atop the counter was a set of bronze scales, a massive, red leather-bound volume of thick parchment pages, a pheasant quill and an inkpot and a gas lamp.

There was a shuffling noise from somewhere in the bowels of the shop, and then they heard Garrick Ollivander before they saw him, muttering to himself, occasionally breaking into a tuneless ballad, sneezing twice, and then he was there, suddenly, behind the counter. He had magnified spectacles propped on his forehead, and planted over his riot of silvery hair, was a brimless, brocade pointed hat that had gotten so soft with age it greater resembled a night cap.

“Mr Snape?” he said. Both Snape and Servius looked at him expectantly, Servius in particular had come to attention.

“Severus Snape,” said Ollivander. “Welcome back to the living. I am not surprised in the slightest. If anyone could escape the maw of death, it would be you. Voldemort underestimated you, oh yes he did.”

“But I almost – I had great luck -,”

“No,” interrupted Ollivander bluntly, and looked pointedly at him with his pale blue eyes. “No. You are like a cat with nine lives. You manipulate destiny. Your movement through time and space rearranges fortune in your favour. It is why you continue to live when so many die around you.”

Ollivander wasn’t quite smiling, but wasn’t fully accusatory either. Ollivander had always been ambiguous; it was difficult for Snape to gauge exactly how to interpret these remarks, the content of which perplexed him utterly, and the extent to which left him wordless. He felt it was rather signifying at his history as a Death Eater.

It didn’t appear that Ollivander needed a reply anyway, for he peered across the desk at Servius and said, “And who do we have here?”

Servius looked immediately at Snape for guidance, and Snape said, “Introduce yourself.”

“James Servius Snape.”

“Snape! Ho ho! Son or nephew?”

“Son,” said Snape uncomfortably, still unused to the word.

“And where on earth did you find time to become a father, Professor?” asked Ollivander, apparently even more immune to tact and diplomacy than Madam Malkin. But again, it was a rhetorical question as Ollivander rummaged in the pockets of his calico apron to find his measuring tape and came around his desk to approach Servius, unwinding spools as he did so.

“It helps narrow down the selection of wands, young man, if I can have a feel for your lengths. Extend your arm please.”

Measurements were taken. Ollivander gave a little speech about different types of wands having different characteristics and properties, both physical and metaphysical. “How long have you had your wand now, Professor?” he called over to Snape as if to illustrate his meaning.

From his position on the rickety chair in the corner, Snape said, “Over thirty years now.”

“That is unusual, and since you’ve taken it into battle. How is it that you’ve never broken it?”

Snape had almost lost it overboard on a ferry steamer crossing the Volga, and Diaphne had taken care to recover his wand when he was rescued from the Shrieking Shack, but he couldn’t think of a time when he’d almost broken it. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Let me see it,” said Ollivander coming towards him curiously, and Snape obediently withdrew it and handed it over. Ollivander twisted down his specs and turned the ebony wand back and forth. “Yes. Yes, I remember it. It’s got quite a few nicks and scratches in it – I could resurface it for you?”

“No. No need for that,” said Snape flatly, already a little jumpy at the separation.

“And is it still responsive? The core is sound?”

“Never failed me once,” said Snape. “We are very bonded.”

“This is the wand…Dumbledore…?” Ollivander peered at him over his specs, eyebrows raised.

Snape looked away. “As I said. It has never failed me, never questioned me.”

A small smile appeared on Ollivander’s lips and he gently returned Snape’s wand, grip first. “Your attachment is very overt. If your wand breaks, so shall you.”

Snape looked at him, and took his wand. “I have already been broken, Mr Ollivander. My wand is more intact than I. Touch wood.”

Ollivander chuckled and said, “I doubt the break touched your core. “ Then he turned back to Servius and recommenced with his tape measure, scribbling down numbers on his leather-bound book as he went. “So Master Snape – have you had a turn at some jinxes and hexes with your father’s wand?”

“No. We met today.”

Ollivander’s eyebrow’s peaked and he looked back to Snape, who shook his head to stymie any more questions. “Hm. Well, always a first time. Yours a little later than usual. Have you been raised as a wizard, Master Snape?”

“No. Muggle.”

“I see,” Questions for Snape were clearly burning. “Starting Hogwarts?”

“I don’t want to go. I have to.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“Whatever. I already have a wand.”

“You do? Where did you come across it?”

Before Snape could intervene, Servius said “My mothers,” and dived into his rucksack, bringing out the carved wand box. Snape stood, but Ollivander had already taken the box and opened it with interest.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking at it closely. “That’s poplar. That’s a moral wood, values-driven you could say. And why do you have your mother’s wand? Has she another now?”

“She’s dead,” said Snape and Servius at the same time.

“Terribly sorry,” murmured Ollivander, looking at each of them in turn. “Recently, I take it?”

Snape didn’t want to elaborate. The old wandmaker and Charity had been imprisoned at Malfoy Manor at the same time, Merlin only knew what kind of conversations they may have had down in the cellar. It certainly wasn’t something he wanted to discuss in front of Servius.

“I was three,” said Servius. “My grandparents look after me.”

Ollivander nodded sagely. “Well then, so your mother was a witch and your father here is most certainly a wizard, so young Master Snape, you are definitely no Muggle. Can you work your mother’s wand?”

“I’ve never got it to do anything,” said Servius, taking it out and waving it around.

“May I?”

Servius handed over Charity’s wand to Ollivander who wandered away with it, coughing slightly, magnifying specs back down.

“Poplar…twelve inches…” he placed it on the scale. “I’d say unicorn hair,”

“That’s right,” said Snape.

Ollivander brought out another contraption from beneath the desk. It was a black metal box with a domed lid. He opened it and placed Charity’s wand inside, and tapped it with his own wand. A moment later he retrieved the wand and announced, “It is almost completely wilted. This wand has given up. I’d say that probably happened around the time your mother died. What sort of magic was this wand performing?”

“She could produce a corporeal Patronus with it,” answered Snape.

“Well! That’s impressive….who was your mother? I’m recalling a quiet, blonde lass.”

His deadly memory was uncanny, Snape couldn’t help but stare at him for a second. Then he said, “Charity Burbage. She was a teacher at Hogwarts.”

“Charity Burbage? Why do I know that name?”

Before Ollivander could place it and raise awkward questions, Snape said, “I was telling Servius that he’d needs his own wand. And since his mother’s is now wilted…?”

“That is true, young Master Snape,” agreed Ollivander, returning his sagacious gaze back to Servius. “You’ll never do your best magic with another’s wand, however attached or sentimental you feel. In fact, most witches and wizards are buried with their wand so they can take it with them, no doubt they’ll need it wherever they end up. So. Let us have a look at you.   You have a strong, confident personality, that much is obvious. Unapologetic. Critical. Eager to prove. Sceptical – my, my you are your father’s son. And I haven’t a doubt that your magic streak is a mile wide. What, I wonder, what are you going to give the world?”

At this assessment, Servius frowned and glanced at Snape, and Snape’s heart gave a twinge. The Snape’s did not take well to being defined. He looked almost vulnerable out there, under Ollivander’s critiquing spotlight, seeking assurance from him.

Ollivander wasn’t expecting an answer. He turned his attention to his rows and rows of wands, ambling down the nearest aisle, searching.

While he was gone, Servius stepped up to the counter and reclaimed the poplar wand in its teak box. Snape watched as he shoved it into his backpack, conspicuously avoiding Snape’s eyes. It was a guarded, protective act and revealed Servius’s devotion, his fealty to his departed mother. Snape felt a flash of jealousy. He’d felt the same with Potter about Lily; Potter could indulge his love for his mother whereas Snape could not. Snape had to conceal it, nurture it with bleak rations, nurse it like an ailing, sputtering flame in the shadow of Potter’s artless declarations of grief. Or at least that’s what it had felt like. Here he was again, except this time the love had been between he and the mother, he should be able to requisition the wand as his own. He knew more about that wand than Servius did, and the wand gave him memories that Servius would never have. He felt like saying, “Give the box to me,” …but he wouldn’t. Even though Snape craved the feeling again as though it were oxygen, he coveted the box and the elixir of emotion it contained, he had seen the way Servius’ shoulder had turned against Snape as he reached for it, using his body to come between his father and the wand. To deny it, to withhold it…no, the boy needed it more than he did, it was his piece of flotsam in an ocean of adult enigma and abstruseness.

Ollivander duly returned to his desk holding four boxes, and the testing began. He gave Servius first a willow and unicorn wand. The willow was an uncommon wood, and it was known for tapping potential, which Ollivander felt Servius was brimming with. Servius held it and tried a simple spell but there was no connection. The second was pine, in this case Servius’s inherited independence and individuality being the trigger point for a match, but no magic was felt. There was a dogwood and Phoenix feather which Snape thought would be a good match for Servius’s mischievous side, but the wand knew better. And lastly, a larch and dragon heartstring, a combination which Ollivander stated he almost never put together. Snape had heartstring and personally leaned to it as a core, the larch wood he was surprised by. “The classic unknown quantity,” said Ollivander. “Like the wildcard of wandwood. It is unshaped, unproved, unknown. It is like an empty vessel, just waiting to be discovered by a wizard who needs a voyage of discovery. That is my sense about young Servius here. Servius will be like you, Professor Snape – once he has bonded, the possibilities will be unlimited. And I certainly don’t want to get in Servius’s way.”

The wand itself was a fine, soft honey-coloured wood to which Ollivander had applied a dark veneer to bring up the figuring and character. The grip was particularly nice, having been carved to the shape of a Celtic dragon head. Snape approved heartily, and watched Servius to see what would happen.

Ollivander held forth the box and allowed Servius to lift it out. A glow emanated from the wand as Servius’s fingers closed around the grip, Servius’s eyes grew huge and it was obvious he could feel the magic through the touch. A small smile came to his face, abstracted, his entire attention focussed on this almost sentient tool in his hand.

“Say _lumos_ ,” said Snape.

“ _Lumos_ -,”

The wand-tip lit up brilliantly.

“How does it feel in your hand, Master Snape?” asked Ollivander, his own expression warmed beneath the light and a happy pairing.

“It feels nice…really nice…like a little animal or something…friendly...”

“Try a little flick…let’s see some bonding sparks fly.”

A little self-consciously, Servius half-swished, half-flicked the wand and gold sparks sprayed out of the still-lit wand tip accompanied by a faint _huzzing_ noise.

“Hah – he’s a chatterbox wand, did you hear that? I’d say, Professor Snape, we’ve found a match.”

From where he’d been watching avidly, Snape nodded and belatedly realised he’d been standing there with a big smile planted on his face, which he hastily erased, and said seriously, “Yes, I agree. They seem compatible. Say _nox_ , Servius.”

“ _Nox_.” The light went out.

“Your first spell,” said Ollivander, his smile almost lost in his heavily creased face. “Top of the class now.”

 

As they left Ollivanders, the new wand still in Servius’s hand as he refused to let go of it, repeatedly lighting it and turning it off again, Snape got flashing in the retinas of his eyes. Pain points began in his temples. He’d had a reprieve while they were in Ollivanders, but now he was paying for his memories earlier.

And he was starting to see a pattern with the onset of the migraines – Candace had been right. Actual memories or attempted recall of memories seemed to trigger them, and he intuited that it was connected to the magic which had removed his memory of Charity. The chapter on _Memorium Delens_ had said there were often side-effects from the ritual, sometimes dangerous ones. And the Wicce supposedly knew something about his migraines.

When Snape had been in the care of the Wicce and Diaphne at their small, rustic hospital, he had asked how it was that he was known to them, enough to take this trouble. Diaphne answered that she simply knew him from around Hogsmeade, knew he was a Professor at the school and she would have done the same for any of the teachers. But he had an inkling that she knew him better than a stranger, she had become loving and affectionate too rapidly, she slipped little clues that revealed a familiarity with him unexplained by their brief acquaintance. He didn’t pursue it at the time, he had too many pressing problems to bother with mild curiosities, but now he wondered whether the Wicce and Diaphne had met him before. Perhaps in the act of deleting his memories.

He and Servius walked back towards The Leaky Cauldron, it now being close to 4:30 and they were to meet Candace Peacock. As soon as they were seated inside the pub, Snape withdrew a vial of Diaphne's potion from his coat pocket – there wasn’t enough quantity to stop the migraine altogether, but it might be enough to get him back to Hogwarts. He necked the lot, re-stoppered the vial and sat back in the chair with his eyes closed.

“Look! Look!” said Servius and Snape’s eyes flew open again.

“What?”

“If I flick my wand at the glass, it moves!” Servius demonstrated, and a drinking glass belonging to a customer at a neighbouring table was tipped over, spilling butterbeer all over the table and onto the customer’s trousers.

The customer jumped up and Snape did as well, apologising and cleaning the spill with a quick _scourgify_. The disgruntled customer looked angrily at Servius, and Snape’s head began to pound.

When he sat down again, he looked at Servius with a heavy frown. “Servius, listen. A wand is a tool. It’s not for playing with, it’s not a toy. In your bag of books there is one all about spells and how to use your wand. Have a read through it before school starts, see what you can pick up. But don’t try anything, never point it at anything living, and _never_ use it in front of Muggles, _never_. If you do something untoward with it, the Ministry will know and you will get in trouble for using under-age magic. And I won’t be able to get you off.”

“What’s the Ministry?”

“The police to you.”

“How will they know?!”

Snape cocked a single brow. “Because they’re magic, Servius.”

 


	8. The Nomination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In memory of the 50 who died in my home town of Christchurch, violently and senselessly due to extremist views. Build strong children, for there are too many broken men out there. - LoT

##  The Nomination 

 

It was late afternoon when Snape got back to the gates of Hogwarts, even so the sun was still high in the sky and would remain so until after nine at night. Birds were still singing, butterflies rested on towering clumps of crowning thistle, and patches of purple, lilac and bronze heather flanked the path up to the castle, and when crushed underfoot, scented the air. Snape tried to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, the pulsating migraine dazzle in his vision making his passage part guesswork. Halfway up the hill he’d been joined by a silent, solemn Fisk, with his tail swinging steadily at half-mast, who walked him the remainder of the way to the oaken door like a shadow, and then stood sentry-like in the courtyard as Snape went to enter. Although Snape was sick with the pain of his migraine, he paused, looked back and said, “Thank you.”

The cool, dark interior of the castle was a blessing. The builders had left for the day and all was tranquil. He went directly to his quarters, stepping carefully around traffic cones placed along the length of the dungeon corridor, and once admitted, sought out the bottle of Diaphne’s potion in his bathroom cupboard before anything else.

Still dressed and booted, a few minutes of lying prone and unmoving on his bed was enough for the migraine to recede so that he could at least open his eyes fully. A full thirty minutes later and he was able to stand and feel relatively normal. Relatively. Something towards the back of his brain - around, he supposed, where the temporal lobe was - felt like it physically shifted as he became upright. That wasn’t good; that wasn’t meant to happen. He actually placed his hand to the back of his head, instinctively trying to feel for a displacement, but of course there was nothing.

Turning himself deliberately to other matters, Snape removed from his coat pocket the _reducio_ ’d copy of Servius’s birth certificate. He restored it to normal size, then removed the certificate from the envelope and once more perused it, reading again and again his own name and Charity’s. _Father_. _Mother_. It seemed incredible, extraordinary. He wondered what Charity would have made of his conduct today, whether she would have approved of his parenting ability. He strongly doubted it. He’d used his wand on Servius twice and told him he didn’t want him to come to Hogwarts. He’d said nothing to reassure him, nothing to give him confidence, no form of hope. He’d even contemplated taking his mothers’ wand.   The boy was going to develop a stronger relationship with an owl than with him.

In shame and desperation, he cast about in his mind for what he should have done differently, how he should have played it, but the day had felt like a roller-coaster ride, it was too sudden, too quick, he’d just recover from one loop to be plunged down another. And despite years of teaching, Snape had no positive role-modelling to draw on as a father. He didn’t have a partner to share with, to take advice from, no parenting classes, not so much as a book. Thrown in at the deep end, he’d taken refuge in his teaching persona, reducing the entire encounter to an exercise in discipline and goal setting.

Deeply disheartened, he put the birth certificate in the drawer of his bedside table, and decided he’d better make his whereabouts known to McGonagall – he was, after all, on work time now. Locking his quarters behind him, he began the trek towards the Headmasters tower (as it was still referred to), hoping she would be in her office.

As it happened, he bumped into her exiting the door that led down to the kitchens. Her face was dark with anger, lips thinned, and she lifted her skirts before her with one hand and in the other carried her wand like a switch.

“Ma’am?” he said in surprise.

“Oh Severus, thank Merlin,” she all but gasped. “I’ve just been to the kitchen. The elves are refusing to work. They had their rally yesterday and -,” she halted, seeming to notice him, then her eyes widened.

“Today was your meeting with your laddie!”

He nodded, a bit taken aback by the abrupt change in pace.

“Have you just got back? Well how did it go?”

Snape’s mouth opened but as four or five different responses flooded his brain at once, no words came out. Finally, he settled on a rather downcast: “Variable. Mostly…unpromising.”

The half-smile she’d arranged on her face in anticipation of a glowing report, fell. “Unpromising? What – _he_ is unpromising? What do you mean? No, wait, let’s go to the Head’s office, I need a stiff drink and a chair, and by the sounds of it, so do you.”

Ten minutes later they were seated in the armchairs with a glass each, portrait Dumbledore in listening proximity, and the tall, beautiful windows thrown open to make the most of the warm, fragrant summer eve. Over the last few years, McGonagall had arranged for climbing roses, jasmine and honeysuckle to be planted at the base of each castle tower, and along with the ivy, the flowering creepers now scrambled up the stonework releasing their scent into the still, balmy air. In what would appear to be some form of display, Thestrals were occasionally spied rising above the tree-tops of the forest like equine nightingales, their great wings flapping slowly as they descended.

“Well. Here’s to parenting in all its forms,” said McGonagall briskly in a toast, raising her whisky, and Snape did likewise. “I’m told that teachers have it easier than parents.”

“Different,” replied Snape. “Based on my solid six hours of experience.”

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, “you’ve been thrown into the fray more times than I care to count. But all those scrapes pale in comparison to the responsibility you’ve now taken on. Children are like a picture we paint on a canvas; most parents get the pleasure of deciding first to get one, and then nine months of lead-in before they dip the brush into the paint. You’ve had a weeks’ notice, and then had a half-finished picture hurtled at you like a bludger across a pitch, and no one to beat it to. If I could shake your hand I surely would.”

“Sir,” acknowledged Snape, swallowing hard. The perspicacity of the old headmaster, even in portrait form, never failed him. He raised his glass and took a long gulp.

“So,” said McGonagall. “Tell me what happened.”

Over the space of one and a half more tumblers, Snape divulged everything, including the birth certificate naming Servius as a Snape and not Burbage, the boy’s insistence that he did not want to attend Hogwarts, Ollivander’s rather obtuse assessment [Dumbledore’s snippy opinion was that Ollivander was old and over-indulged, prone to believing his own press], and finishing with his own evaluation that Charity would have been disappointed.

To this, McGonagall said, “Charity would never wanted to have a child with you if she believed you would be a bad father. She had better insight into who you are and what you can do than any of us.”

Dumbledore said, “You had nothing but your bare wits about you today, Severus; I can’t point to a man – and I use that word advisedly – who would have fared any better in the same situation. Remember, when Servius starts at Hogwarts, you will have the help of a village to raise him.”

Frankly, and particularly with a fifth of a bottle of whisky in him, Snape could have happily wept and hugged them both for their non-judgmental review of the situation. But he simply cleared his throat and nodded mutely.

“I mean,” said McGonagall. “Compare Tom Riddle in the same situation. You do know he procreated?”

Dumbledore snorted laughter, but Snape frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Yes,” said McGonagall, her eyebrows nudging her hairline. She took a sip. “He fathered a daughter, don’t you know.”

“ _What_?”

“With that dreadful Lestrange woman.”

“ _Bellatrix?!_ ”

“I doubt he would have taken his daughter for her first uniform.”

“How is it even possible? I mean…how… _can_ he…?”

Dumbledore laughed outright. “I expect the old-fashioned way.”

“But he’s…not made the old-fashioned way.”

Dumbledore, chuckling, said, “One must presume, Severus, that certain things remained useful. Nose notwithstanding.”

“I’m sure you know better than anyone, Severus, that snakes can produce offspring,” said McGonagall.

Snape shook his head, dumbfounded.   “I had no idea he even…he was just so… _focused_.”

“I’ve always said,” McGonagall was shaking her own head, trying to suppress a smile, “never assume anything about other people’s relationships.”

“How old is the daughter? Oh Merlin – she’s not coming to Hogwarts?” Snape’s expression filled with dread.

McGonagall’s right eyebrow arched. “Well of course, Severus. She was top of our list. Her letter was addressed to Delphini Riddle, Cell Nine, Azkaban. I’m just joking, she’s not imprisoned, obviously. Not yet.”

“That is a fiendish combination of genes,” proffered Snape, reflecting on some of Bellatrix’s madder, brilliant moments.

“All part of the plan, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Snape knocked back his whisky. “Well she’ll be one for the next generation to deal with. I intend to be retired on a remote island somewhere. What’s happened with the kitchen elves?”

“The elves are refusing to work past 5pm unless they are paid at a higher rate,” explained McGonagall with a great deal of poorly concealed impatience. She swirled her whisky in its glass in agitation. “So dinner and any meals between 5pm and 7:30am. Which means we either introduce a roster system or reduce the number of elves working those hours or start paying more.”

“This to do with the Elvish Freedom and Employment decree? It was enacted while I was away,” said Snape. “It’s quite a reversal in position for them.”

“You’ll remember Hermione Granger started the whole thing while she was here? Well this is her first Act through and you mark my words, that girl will be Minister one day, if not Prime Minister of Britain, especially once Elves get the vote. But I don’t mind telling you, she’s upset a great many households.” McGonagall looked like she was biting back words, then a little calmer she said, “Severus, I’m giving this to you to deal with. I’ve got a bit on my plate with the staff coming back next week. Are you happy to handle it?”

“I’ll get on to it,” he replied, rising from his chair and placing his glass back on the tray.

“Just before you go,” said McGonagall, pausing him, “I need you about on Monday. We’ve visitors.”

“Who?”

She smiled at him and glanced at Dumbledore. “The Minister is dropping in, and he’s bringing with him Harry Potter and Sir Byron. They all want to see you.”

Even though such meetings had been hinted at since Snape first contacted Hogwarts, it was still a surprise to be the subject of interest after eight years of anonymity. After a moment or two to digest what the Headmistress had said, Snape tilted his head slightly and looked uncomfortable, but nodded. “Ah. I see. Well, I shall be at your convenience on Monday.”

“You seem…a little indifferent…it’s Shacklebolt, Severus. And Harry. They specifically wanted an audience with you.”

“I’m honoured.”

He actually didn’t really know how he felt. There had been a turning in the tide of opinion about Snape that had occurred while he was in the Wicce’s hospital, when the extent of his services, his loyalty, had slowly come to light after the war, when the best of him had finally been unveiled – he’d read about it in the Prophet with a literal and metaphorical remoteness, feeling as distant from the dead man he read about as if he were someone else entirely. He was like a Japanese soldier on the last outpost, still hardwired for duty, feeling his soul couldn’t rest while escaped Death Eaters still walked, sure that Dumbledore would have instructed him to hunt them down.

He couldn’t ever quite believe that Voldemort was gone, but he had been able to put to rest any vestiges of divided loyalty. He was almost grateful for the attempt on his life, the cruel, calculated act helped to finally relinquish those lingering hopes for a shred of approval from the Dark Lord that, he only realised after, he’d come to depend on. It was the hypnotic, magnetic, charismatic appeal of Tom Riddle that he made men and women so desperate for his approval, for recognition that they barely knew their own minds. It had shocked him, that his death had been decided and arranged. Even though death had been a constant companion during the war, he hadn’t expected it to come about at the hand of Voldemort himself. He hadn’t been immune to punishment from the Dark Lord, but he’d flattered himself that Voldemort had depended on him, and that he’d become indispensable. But, it transpired, the Lord had no great plans or rewards for his best general.

Seeing as no more was to be forthcoming, McGonagall arched her brows, smiled and nodded and Snape was free to leave.

*

When Snape entered the kitchen, the heat of it blasting him like an opened furnace due to the roaring blaze in the fireplace, all the elves present paused at whatever task they were occupied with to look at him. Not one seemed friendly or welcoming, and an ill-disposed hush had descended – whether this was directed to him in particular or was just the prevailing mood after McGonagall’s meeting, Snape was uncertain.

The first thing different he noticed was that every single elf was dressed in the same outfit, but it was no longer a tea-towel or sack, rather a fitted top, like a long t-shirt, the hem of which reached their knees, and on the front was the face of an elf. The face was familiar, but Snape had never paid much more than cursory attention to the elves and knew few of them by name. For years he had just called to them, “Elf,” or “You there, Elf” or “Fetch an elf and hurry.” So while the face was recognisable, and clearly of significance, he’d just have to park the name for now until a clue presented itself.

“I would like to speak to you all, or to one elf who is happy to represent you,” he announced to the sea of outsized eyes.

The elves immediately broke into a muted mumbling amongst themselves and their attention turned towards the back of the kitchen, and from there came forward the elf they had obviously decided was to speak on behalf of them all. This elf, an older male with a rather ornery expression, wearing not only the t-shirt and with a belt, but a wildly anachronistic bowler hat which Snape assumed must have originally belonged to a toy, walked towards him and said, “I am Mr Gadkey, sir. I can talk with you.”

 _Mister_ Gadkey? “Thank you,” said Snape. “I wish to discuss your position on extra payment for evening meals.”

“I will not discuss anything with a human who is standing. It is a form of oppression. If you want to discuss matters, then you must sit first.”

Snape was relieved that Gadkey spoke good English – this was probably why he’d been nominated, along with his self-aggrandising attitude – but stood where he was for a minute, staring coolly at the elf, hands behind his back. Then, with an intentionally loud sigh, he slowly pulled forth a wooden chair from where a row had been pushed back against the kitchen wall, and, stiffly, sat.

He and Gadkey were now eye to eye. This, Snape discovered, was deeply disconcerting.

“We have decided that we want a change in our employment conditions,” commended Mr Gadkey in imperious tones.  “We don’t want to stay in the kitchen all night, we want to go home. Sometimes we are in the kitchen all night for nothing. If Hogwarts wants us to stay in the kitchen all night, then you must pay us more.”

“But you are doing things at night…cleaning the dorms and common rooms -,”

“That is the house elves!” retorted Gadkey, heatedly. “We are _kitchen_ elves, we are trained with food, much more skilled. We have our own conditions.”

“I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise -,”

“Of course you didn’t. You haven’t paid attention. House elves _prefer_ to work at night.”

“I take your point. And your definition of night begins…?”

“From 5pm. The same as humans when they finish work.”

“But this is a boarding school. We don’t have normal working hours.”

“It is of no concern to us how Hogwarts wants to run itself. Perhaps you should close at 5pm.”

The flagrant, impertinent nonsense of the statement made Snape’s eyelids lower and his teeth grit, but he took a breath and said, “And if all the kitchen elves went home at 5pm, the children would have no dinner.”

“We are making progress, sir! Perhaps the teachers should come all the way down to the kitchen and make them scrambled eggs.”

Snape thought he detected a smirk on Gadkey’s face. This was confirmed when a titter ran throughout the room and a saucepan was gonged by someone.

“But you would get no pay at all after 5pm. Even if you do nothing now, you receive money for being here.”

“This is true. But we have decided we would rather have no money because it is not enough, and be home with our families, than be here during the night for no reason.”

Snape was seeing the negotiation terms on the table. The elves had become Unionised. They had done a sharp one-eighty from their refusal on pay and holidays, to more money or strike action. Snape had harboured private hopes his return to Hogwarts was to an enclave away from the troubles and strife he’d seen out there in the world, but here he was, talking to it.

“What if you implement a roster? Some elves work during the day and go home at night, and some work during the night and go home in the morning. Then you can all swap around.”

A fever of muttering rose around the room, audible even above the roar of the fire, and Gadkey momentarily looked back at his members, but obviously felt prepared to represent them. “Sir, there are one hundred and five elves employed in the kitchen, and almost three-hundred students starting at Hogwarts. We can barely meet the needs of two hundred and fifty students with all of us working. How do you propose we cook for and serve them all with only fifty elves working?”

Egads. Snape had been through a long, difficult, migraine-impaired day. He wasn’t up to this. The three glasses of whisky on a mostly empty stomach wasn’t helping. He lifted fingers to his head and massaged his brow for perhaps ten seconds, then considered Gadkey again. “We are going to have to meet formally about this. You raise some valid points, but I am not prepared. Until we have had a chance to meet, negotiate and think on your proposal properly, and with some notice, then your current conditions still apply. Mister Gadkey, can we meet next week?”

Gadkey appraised him, then returned to his members in a huddle, with whom he discussed things for several minutes in Elvish. Duly, he returned to Snape, who was now sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, and said, “Yes. I am prepared to do that. I say Monday. The kitchen elves are prepared to work until then. Did you want some dinner?”

“I would love some dinner.”

“Then please tell the Headmistress we will cook tonight.”

*

The weekend passed relatively incident free. Snape had no migraines and thoroughly enjoyed numerous hours to himself attending to his office, stores, supplies and quarters. He had two meetings with McGonagall and Dumbledore discussing matters on her list and took on further projects on her behalf. Towards the end of one meeting, she reached across The Desk to touch his arm, pausing him before he left her office, and said, “I really can’t tell you how glad I am you’re back. Don’t do that again.”

Slughorn’s house purchase had been successful and he had been preoccupied with settling himself in. He invited Snape and McGonagall to visit on Sunday evening, to warm it, with a wee dram. The occasion ended up lasting six hours, and considerably more dram. McGonagall, wisely and pleading tiredness, excused herself after dinner and returned to Hogwarts, but Snape stayed on, the fine Scotch having loosened his tongue and, with the practised urging of Slughorn, talked about his exploits with the Dark Arts in Europe. By the end, they were arguing drunkenly about whether the so-called Invisibility Potion actually worked or whether it was a mock-potion, and whether it would be more effective than a cloak, or the Disillusionment charm, and who was going to make some anyway and try it out.

“What we need,” said Slughorn breathily in the light of only a few candles left burning, “is all three to sample-test, you know.”

“I have to go,” grunted Snape, extricating himself with difficulty from Slughorn’s remarkably plump sofa.

“So we can try the potion first, then the cloak, then the charm. And see what we can get away with.”

“No, you see, there is no such thing as an invisi, invisis – there is no potion.”

“There is I tell you!”

“I have to go. There’s people want to see me tomorrow.”

Snape, having made it to his feet, staggered his way down the hall of Slughorn’s new home to the front door, followed by the host. Despite the hellish decorations, he approved of the house. And said so.

“Now all I need is a young lass to warm the bed,” agreed Slughorn, with a slightly sad smile and bleary eyes.

Snape swayed a little, looking at him. “Don’t we all,” he replied. “That was a fine drop, Sluggers, thank you kindly.”

With that, he opened the door to the night outside and started his way down the garden path.

“Severus?’

He turned back to Slughorn, still standing in his doorway.

“Your lad. He’ll be sorted into Slytherin and you can mark my words – I’ll look out for him.”

*

Snape checked he had his wand, which he did, got his bearings in the dark, and then started to walk at a pace he thought was brisk, making his way back through the close streets of Hogsmeade towards Hogwarts.

With his wand lit, even though it was barely necessary as the moon was large and bright, he had reached the junction of the path which separated, one in the direction of Hogwarts, the other to the Shrieking Shack. A quick glance towards the shack earned a double-take: there was a light on, glowing in the downstairs window.

It took Snape – inebriated Snape – less than a second to decide. He headed directly to the cause for curiosity.

He decided to enter via the front door, which had been left unboarded since Voldemort’s last stand. Much of the rest of the shack, however, enjoyed something of a renaissance. It had never been busier than since the war. Having been devoid of werewolf activity for years, and revived with legend about the Dark Lord and Nagini and Harry Potter, the Hogsmeade residents had been in and out of the Shack on a routine basis ever since. Young children loved it as a hangout, defying their parents’ instructions and warnings, and many rooms were re-invented as forts and hideouts. Teenagers revered it as the place to go when nowhere else was available, on a first-in first-served basis, which involved hanging a dried wreath on the front door if “in use”. And the coven made regular use of it, the aura of the place being redolent with mystique, romance and danger. All three groups had been making inadvertent improvements to it, and when Snape entered, he was surprised to find the hallway swept, dusted and the walls slapped with a primer coat of paint.

The light was coming from the front room, and he made his way towards it, only to be suddenly knocked off his feet and out black before he realised what had happened.

“Professor? Professor?”

Snape roused an indeterminate time later, groggily, finding himself lying on the cold, wooden floorboards of the Shack, aching, woozy, and above him, shaking him –

“Diaphne?”

“Sir? I’m sorry.”

For it was the young witch, in her day clothes of summer skirt and fitted blouse, hair loose, sandals and woollen shawl. She had evidently been out enjoying the sunshine during the day, as her skin had a rosy glow, the tips of her hair shone and she had a wildgrass fragrance about her, like a meadow. She was leaning over him, placing her hands on his face, his wrists.

“Why does this keep happening?”

“Sir?”

“What happened?”

“I _stupefied_ you sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

Snape struggled upright and onto his feet, using the walls for support even though Diaphne was valiantly trying.

“What are you doing in here? Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yes – I – yes, I am alone. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why? Why are you in here by yourself?”

Diaphne looked about her, seemingly surprised by the question. Then she turned back to him and said, “I…collect…things for Aunt. Don’t tell anyone, but this place has a lot of werewolf blood which is very valuable. I find it and keep it for Aunt.”

He gazed at her large grey eyes, which appeared completely sincere, but he said, “It’s almost the middle of the night. Why this hour?”

“I like to be out at night,” she said, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

His eyes wandered over her clean, guileless face: the sun-kissed skin, the long lashes, full, soft lips. Once, he had known them, and his mind went there now, remembering, and his eyes darkened, and heartbeat rose.

She said, “You have been drinking, Professor.”

“One or two.”

“And why are _you_ here? Shouldn’t you be in your bed, sleeping off the whisky?”

She was slightly coquettish and didn’t shy away from his intense gaze. But her question broke his reverie, he looked behind her into the front room and he said, “I saw the light on. I had thought for some time about coming back. It seemed…important.”

Sensing the pilgrimatic nature of his visit, she took his hand and led him into the room in which she had lit several candles. Like the hall, the floors had been cleared of dust and debris and there were chairs in here, the table Voldemort had once sat at now the place of several candlesticks, the ceilings free of cobwebs.   Diaphne lit her wand and pointed it at a section of bare floorboards on which there was a large, dark stain.

“That is your blood, Professor. Here is where you almost died.”

The information was abrupt, and he was taken aback, but couldn’t tear his eyes away from the extent of the stain. “A lot…” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Remember I told you? The artery had been temporarily bound by your cravat, but it was torn and with the venom you had but minutes. Had you not taken time to talk to Harry Potter, I might have been able to preserve more of your own blood.”

“I had to talk to Potter. That was more important than my own life. I did not expect to live.”

“What did you have to tell him?”

“I had to tell him what to do.”

“Then thank Merlin he was here!”

His eyes lifted to hers. “Thank Merlin you were. I haven’t forgotten that I owe you my life, although for a long time I no longer placed much value on it. To die here would have been a natural conclusion, I think. Surviving it filled me with anger and a kind of…pointlessness.”

Diaphne looked hurt and disheartened to hear his choice of words. “I am not ungrateful, don’t construe that. I meant…I had come to believe that my only purpose in life was to fulfil my duty in the war. I had nothing else.”

“But you did, Professor,” she objected, frowning at him. “You had a love, someone who loved you, someone who was waiting for you.”

He scrutinised her. “Who do you mean? Do you mean Charity?”

Realising her slip, she glanced away.

He took her chin and turned her eyes back to his. “How do you know about her? How did you know about me? I was no stranger to you, Diaphne, when you found me here we had met before. Where?”

She swallowed nervously and made to move away, but he took a grip on her upper arm. “Did you talk to the Wicce about my migraines? What does she know about them?”

Diaphne pulled and tried to free her arm but he did not relent. Caught and cornered, she became resistant. “I will call the coven if you don’t release me,” she said quietly.

“Then answer me. If you care for me, you will tell me.”

And she did care for him. He could read it in her eyes when he’d said it. He removed his hand and waited, never taking his eyes off her. “If there are secrets, they are safe with me. You have my word,” he said.

“The Wicce will see you on Thursday about your migraines, day after the full moon. You will need to go to her. I will come with you. You can ask her about the ritual.”

“Ritual?”

“Your memories of Charity, Professor,” murmured Diaphne, and her face became a kaleidoscope of emotions – amazement, envy and remorse blending in and out. “They are lifted; they are preserved in a Witch’s Bottle. It was your own request.”

*

The following day, in his office, Snape was hailed by McGonagall at 11am. She used the Floo network and said, “Severus, come at once. Our visitors are here.”

He had predicted the meeting would be mid-morning, and had taken a generous dose of Restoration Remedy for his pounding hangover with a coffee so dense it was possible to stand a spoon upright in it. Not only was the whisky wreaking its revenge, he’d had almost no sleep trying to think where the Witch’s Bottle of memories would be, even getting up from his bed a couple of times to try hidey-holes in his office and storeroom. He had a persistent fear that he’d destroyed the bottle for some reason, it wasn’t behaviour completely unlike him, he’d believe himself capable of something like that. He just couldn’t think why and wound himself into a frenzy about it.

He’d had no breakfast for it was the Scottish Bank Holiday and the kitchen elves were not working. They claimed they were entitled to overtime rates for working a public holiday and so McGonagall had told them the staff would fend for themselves. He had not yet broached the idea of food.

One decent positive of the holiday was that there were also no builders working, and the castle was free from the all-pervading hammering, banging, shouting, scraping and crashing that otherwise designated supposed repair work.

There was no sign of Slughorn either, as Snape had moved up and down the dungeon corridors. As Emeritus, Slughorn had been allocated an office at the other end of the corridor from the Potion’s Office. On the front of the dark oak door he’d had a bronze nameplate mounted, and the words Professor Emeritus beneath that. What he intended to do with this incumbency, as yet, Snape had no idea.

At the call from McGonagall, Snape experienced some jitters and he took a deep, shaky breath before rising and leaving the office, donning his new academic robe. He noticed his fingers trembled a little as he used his wand to lock the office door. The nerves, he supposed, were due to the strain of a tri-fold examination he assumed he was about to be subjected to. The purpose of the visit from Shacklebolt, Potter and Byron might be positive in its intent, but there was nonetheless a degree of invasiveness about it that unsettled him. Snape had never sought attention.

When he entered the Headmaster’s Office, all three were standing in a semi-circle near the fireplace. McGonagall was in fine, formal robes and her pointed hat, Slughorn stood beside her looking – he noted – absolutely fine, and Dumbledore watched on from his portrait. There was also an unknown man carrying a large camera. Large as the Headmaster’s Office was, it felt crowded, and the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him made Snape’s skin prickle.

As soon as he’d shut the door behind him, he heard his name from multiple persons, and Shacklebolt stepped towards him, hand extended. He had a big, wide smile, the whiteness emphasised against his dark skin and even darker three-piece suit. “As I live and breathe, it is Severus Snape in the flesh. Welcome back, Professor.” When Snape accepted his hand to shake it, Shacklebolt held it with both hands and pumped it heartily.

The man with the camera hurried forward and took photos, requesting a repeat of the greeting and a posed photo or two. Snape felt his skin at his neck and cheeks start to heat.

Potter came next. Snape had mere moments to register the maturity in Potter’s features, although the iconic hair, glasses and scar were all still present. The boy, as he still thought of him, would now be twenty-six, it was hard for Snape to believe. He thought he saw a similar sort of revision in Potter’s green eyes, adjusting his memory of his loathed Potions Master into the man he saw before him. What he said was: “Professor. You look exactly the same. Have you discovered the secret of immortality while you’ve been away?”

For a terrifying moment, Snape thought Potter was going to embrace him, but he merely stuck his hand out and when Snape shook it, he felt a man’s hand, not a child. It was jarring, but in a good way. Something akin to a smile rose to his lips.

Lastly Sir Byron jostled his way forward. Memories of the audit came back to Snape, the visit to him in the Ministry. Bryon had grown a thin moustache, and presented as robust and smooth as ever, but Snape saw a lot of worry lines had furrowed his brow and the corners of his eyes. “Professor, thank Merlin you’re alive, and congratulations on your appointment to Deputy. I am delighted to have you back on the faculty. Hogwarts will be all the better for your experience and expertise.”

Snape made appropriate noises, but his eyes kept travelling back to Potter. He wasn’t sure why. Being in a room with McGonagall, Dumbledore, Slughorn and Potter felt weirdly like time travel, he felt younger. He felt at home.

More photos were taken, several different arrangements of photos with different groups of people. There was one of Potter and Snape alone, several before Dumbledore’s portrait and the photographer wanted one of Snape by himself but he refused. When the photos were done, the photographer Floo’d back to his offices at The Prophet, and everyone else accepted seats offered by McGonagall. She apologised profusely that she couldn’t offer refreshment and explained about the elves and it being a holiday in Scotland, and Potter muttered something about Hermione, and Shacklebolt said that it was unnecessary anyway as he was due to head back soon.

Snape said to Potter, “I hear you are in the Auror Office now?”

“That’s right. I’m Manager, actually.”

His lack of NEWTS passed silently between them, and Potter said, “It was felt I had qualified through practical service.” Snape smiled and Potter’s eyes widened, then he smiled back.

“He would have passed anyway,” said McGonagall. “Something like eighty percent of Aurors are Gryffindors.”

“And that portrait?” said Snape, indicating the one of himself that was still hanging. “I understand that it is thanks to you?”

Dumbledore was heard chortling behind them as Potter turned to look at it. “Ah yes, well…I felt, since you had been Headmaster…and you protected the students while you were Head…”

“Not really,” said Snape. “But it was a kind gesture.”

“Sir, Professor,” said Potter suddenly, “I didn’t know you were still alive – in the Shrieking Shack -,”

Snape waved a hand. “You couldn’t have known -,”

“I wouldn’t have gone if I had -,”

“Potter, there was a mission. It was more important than me.”

“All the memories coming out? I assumed that was because you were, you were -,”

Conscious of several pairs of ears listening in intently, Snape said, “You did what you needed to do. For once in your life, you followed my instructions. [a round of laughter]. It worked out.”

“How did you survive, Severus?” asked Shacklebolt. “Who saved you?”

“I can’t say,” said Snape with a small shake of his head. “You’ll have to kill me first.” Another round of laughter.

“And was it you?” Potter asked, “That brought Rowle and Mulciber Jnr to me? And the other Death Eaters?”

“I’m afraid it was. It wasn’t my intention to upstage you, Potter, I knew you’d do what was necessary.”

For the next half hour there was general chat amongst the group, there was so much to catch up on that barely a sentence had been finished before another was started. The heat Snape had felt drained away, and before long he’d almost started to enjoy himself. The subject of Servius never came up; it hadn’t felt relevant. The subject of Lily never came up either.

Just before noon, Shacklebolt made noises about regrettably having to go for another appointment, and as he stood, so did the others. Then Shacklebolt said to Snape, “There was another reason for us gathering today. We not only had to see you with our own eyes, but I have official business. It is my pleasure to inform you, Professor Snape, that owing to your services to the Wizarding World, your dedication to your duty under incredible odds, your sacrifice, and your outstanding contribution to the Order of the Phoenix, let alone individuals within it, you have been nominated for an Order of Merlin Award. Congratulations. I’m just sorry it’s so late!”

A ripple of laughter, and a round of applause. Snape coloured deeply, a fact that embarrassed him even further. But he shook Shacklebolt’s hand again and said self-effacing things and then joked it was about time.

“The award ceremony is in April as you know. Various people will be in touch about it. But I’m afraid I must leave. Thank you again, Severus, and I know I say this on behalf of a lot of people: we’re glad you came back.”

As Shacklebolt Floo’d back to his office in London, Potter came up to Snape, and again shook his hand. He caught Snape’s eyes and said quietly, “Professor, there are things I need to talk to you about. Today wasn’t the day. Can we meet again? When are you in London next?”

“Uh, tomorrow in fact,” said Snape, frowning, caught off guard. “I’m at Diagon Alley.”

“I’ll buy lunch,” said Potter. “I’ll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron.” And with that, he too Floo’d back to the Ministry.

Sir Byron left next, after an extended chat with McGonagall and Dumbledore. Then he approached Snape and spoke in confidential tones. “I didn’t want to mention it earlier, but – and I know this is very late – but my heartfelt condolences about Charity. I can’t tell you what a gap it left in my own life when I heard she’d died. She was an outstanding thinker, such potential. A huge loss. That wee lad of hers, bright little thing, was all you, he looked like you even when he was just a toddler. I know he must bring you comfort now.   Anyway, there were some bits and pieces at the Ministry that belonged to Charity, just personal effects, you know. I brought them with me, just in case you’d like them? If not, no harm, I’ll just take them back with me.”

Sir Byron had a satchel hung by a strap over his shoulder, and when Snape nodded dumbly, he reached inside, withdrew a shrunken storage box which he restored to size with his wand and handed to Snape.

Listening to him, Snape’s heart had began to swell. He held the box before him, and simply nodded, stunned, as if he held precious treasure. A flash of insight into Servius as a small child – bright, looked like him – his heart brimmed.

Snape was still dwelling on it as Byron entered the fireplace and vanished in a swirl of green. He turned back to McGonagall, Slughorn and Dumbledore.

“Congratulations, Severus,” said McGonagall immediately. “You are quite deserving.”

“Hear, hear,” said Dumbledore. “I am very disappointed I will miss the ceremony.”

“Thank you,” said Snape. “I’m uncomfortable with these sorts of events, as you know.   But it was good to see them again. Potter is quite the grown man.”

“He finally stopped growing taller,” remarked Dumbledore. “And put some muscle on. The only one lankier than him were the Weasleys.”

“Head of the Auror Office at twenty-six is quite an achievement.”

“For a boy who never even got his NEWTS – I’ll say.”

“Neither of you saw him take on Voldemort,” said McGonagall emphatically, and Slughorn humphed in agreement. “He was spectacular. There are plenty of books on it if you’re interested, in the library. There’s even a painting about it on seventh floor corridor. NEWTS seemed a little…trivial…by comparison.”

A pause, and then Snape glanced at his box. “Ma’am. Unless you need me further, I have much to do.”

McGonagall cocked her head at him, then smiled. “Of course, Severus. We’ll talk again later.”

And with a swirl of his cloak, Snape left the office.

*

The box had some weight; its contents inside shifted minutely as he walked. He hurried back through the castle to his office, and put the box down on his desk. Then he took off his cloak and hung it on its hook, and then locked his office door before standing at his desk, the best angle with which to view inside the box.

Everything in the world dimmed or disappeared as he focused entirely on carefully removing the lid and looking inside. The first thing he saw was a compact umbrella, the type designed to fit in a carry bag, no doubt something she’d carried with her frequently in and out of London. Knowing Charity’s somewhat care-free approach to her wand, he didn’t doubt that she’d owned several of just these types of umbrellas. He lifted it out and placed it on his desk.

There were some quills and ballpoint pens. They were good quality ones, no doubt the reason Sir Byron or his employees had thought fit to keep them. Snape decided he would keep the quills and give the pens to Servius.

There was a type of wallet made of leather, and when opened, held photographs – still ones, taken with a Muggle camera. The pictures were almost exclusively of Holly and Servius. He had no recollection of Holly, he knew about her from Candace and from the things the Burbage’s had said at lunch, but he flicked past them. All of the pictures of Servius were three-years old or younger, and he stared and stared at them, thinking that Sir Byron had been right – the resemblance to himself was obvious. It was like ghost-features superimposed, because naturally Servius had the soft, rounded, undeveloped features of a baby and toddler – and yet, yet: around the eyes, the shape of the lips, the eyebrows – he was there. There was a beautiful boy he’d not known. This was the child who’d been abandoned after the night at Malfoy Manor.

The last photo he lingered on even longer. This was a photo of Charity kissing baby Servius on the cheek. Snape’s breath stopped when he saw it. The blurry mental images he had of her at staff meetings exploded and it was as if he’d seen Charity yesterday, and known her his whole life. His eyes had sudden and total recall. _Of course!_ his eyes seemed to say. _That is her! That’s how she looked!_ And there was a kind of relief in it, a relief to have a visual fit this aching hole that should have been her imprint, and when he saw the picture of her, and remembered, he also remembered how much he had stared at her, drunk in every little detail of her, adored the very sight of her. Even though her face was partially turned towards Servius, she was half-smiling, almost a sort of wink to the camera, and he gazed at her warm, brown eyes, the freckles, the smooth skin; he remembered the faint birthmark behind her left ear, the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, the tousled ponytail…

Barely conscious of what he was doing, he sat down in his chair and drew a long, hitching breath, never removing his gaze from the photo. She was so beautiful to him, he couldn’t tell objectively anymore whether she was to anyone else. But the sensation was strange, of seeing someone who felt so unutterably familiar, and yet having no memories of her – his mind kept frantically searching through files and boxes in his head trying to connect the image to the memories it belonged to, and having nothing, nothing – it couldn’t close the circuit. This was going to hurt him powerfully later.

He put the photos carefully away in his desk drawer and returned to the box. There were notebooks and manila folders full of her research and writing, a folded page from the Daily Prophet of her published article, and a handful of letters and scrolls from what appeared to be researchers and scholars in Europe commenting on her theories and publications. Snape didn’t go into these in detail, he wanted to explore the entire contents of the box before his migraine started.

The last item in the box was another rolled up piece of parchment, which he almost ignored except it was tied with Hogwarts ribbon. This was something he himself often did before sending a letter with an owl. He untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment, surprised to find it blank. Why would she tie up a blank piece of parchment? Particularly one that looked as if it had been folded and creased numerous times.

The last suspiciously valuable blank piece of parchment he’d come across was the Marauders Map. He withdrew his wand and tapped the paper: “ _Revelio._ ” Words materialised…

_Severus?_

 - Here, my love.

_Why didn’t you write?_

 - I feel tired. Disconsolate.

_Tonight we summoned some local fairies. I wish you could have seen the joy they brought. It was because of you, the things you do, the difference you make in the world. You are remarkable, incredible, and I can’t really describe how delirious you’ve made me. Severus, please, stay with me, you are on my mind constantly and your letters are my only way to stay sane._

 - Only two more days. Then come quickly.

The memory of the letters tumbled forth, as if they were released captives pushed from their hold, they’d been bound and stashed because they had no meaning until he read this, until he connected the puzzle pieces. He remembered being alone in a virtually empty castle – this enchanted parchment had been their means of communication while she was away. He’d had his own twin that he wrote on to her, and her response appeared on the page. Where was his half?

He read the correspondence again and again, becoming angry with himself for sounding so surly and unresponsive. Her worry was clear, she’d tried to coax him, and he’d all but cut her off. In fact, he hadn’t written at all until she prompted him. What was wrong with him? Had Charity grown sick of his behaviour and split up with him, was that why his memories of her had been erased?

He tried _Revelio_ again, in case more correspondence would materialise, but clearly the charm only retained the last exchange for none did.

He remained seated in his chair, drained, feeling like he’d been washed up on a beach after a storm at sea, this deserted island almost worse than drowning. The remnants of Charity were scattered through his mind, mere shreds of things, but they were all he had and his heart wanted every last one.   The birth certificate, the wand, the photo, the letter – if he couldn’t find his memories, wherever the bottle was, he had these.

These; and she was in there, somewhere, if he could find her. In Servius.

 


	9. The Lunch with Potter

Snape cleared his migraine, and in doing so fully depleted all stocks of Diaphne’s potion, in time for the meeting with the kitchen elves.  He wondered if they’d show up, given it was a Bank Holiday and they’d not been at work all day, but it was they who’d selected Monday.  So he went down to the kitchen at the nominated time of two pm and found Mr Gadkey and one other elf waiting for him.  They were seated at one of the long wooden tables that ran parallel to the Great Hall, and they’d fixed themselves something – presumably a drink – in tall, carved cups that must have been warmed for steam issued from the brim.  Fortunately the fireplace was empty today and only one of the many woodburning and gas stoves had been lit, and so while the room was cool, it was also rather dark.

“Mr Gadkey,” said Snape, taking up a chair and placing it at the table on the opposite side of the two elves.  “I understand this is not a working day for you, so I expect you would like to keep this brief.  Shall we proceed?   What are your terms?”

“Professor, you are correct, I should be at home with my family today, not a Hogwarts meeting with the teachers,” Gadkey huffed.  “This is exactly the sort of unreasonable expectation we’ve had to work under.”  His companion nodded strenuously.

“It was you who selected Monday, Mr Gadkey.”

“You did not object to a meeting on Monday.  So I presume you will be paying me and my associate overtime for today’s meeting.”

“Well then.  If that’s the case, let us reconvene on another day,” said Snape, and pushed back his chair.

“Just be aware, Professor, that we agreed to keep cooking evening meals until today,” Gadkey said warningly, and took a draught of his drink.   “If you do not meet our terms at this meeting, then we will not be cooking in the evening from tomorrow onwards until our terms are met.  Coming here today just demonstrates how willing we are to negotiate.  But it is a public holiday and we are working, so our terms are overtime rates for today’s meeting.”

Snape briefly considered hurling the elves out by their sizeable ears and telling McGonagall they would be cooking dinner themselves for the foreseeable future.  But all staff would be back on board in a week and he knew the last thing the Headmistress needed was further angst about the elves and an inability to put a hot meal before twenty hungry teachers and support staff.

“Fine.  I want this wrapped up in no more than two hours and you get overtime rates only for the time you’re here.  Let’s get started.  What are your terms?”

Gadkey reiterated what had been outlined the previous Friday.  From 5pm to 7:30am, kitchen elf hourly rates would need to increase from 50 sickles to 100 sickles per hour, and from 8pm to 7:30am, only twenty kitchen elves would need to be rostered to work, and this hourly rate would increase again on public holidays and only 70 elves would be rostered to work on public holidays.  Further, they wanted kitchen uniforms provided by Hogwarts and they wanted more notice if feasts were going to be held, and they no longer wanted to do food deliveries as they believed this was the province of house elves.

Snape listened to these terms getting grumpier and grumpier, not least due to Gadkey’s supercilious, dogmatic tone, but in large part to the ever-mounting bill this was going to represent.

So the negotiation began.  With a quill keeping minutes, he bargained down from 100 sickles to 75 sickles per hour, reduced the timeframe to twelve hours, from 5pm to 5am, accepted that only twenty elves needed to be on after 8pm.  He agreed to 100 sickles per hour for public holidays, but only 60 elves needed to work if the elves agreed to ensure the menu for public holidays was simple to prepare.  Full uniforms were out, but Hogwarts could supply them with aprons.  Notice for feasts should be easier now Dumbledore wasn’t around to be so randomly generous so he agreed to that, and lastly, they would continue to do deliveries.

They shook hands.  The deal was struck, and the elves downed their drinks in self-gratified way before Disapparating.

Wearily, Snape left the kitchen, grabbing an end-of-season peach on his way.   Exiting the basement steps into the Entrance Hall he came upon McGonagall, walking with Madam Pomfrey.

“Severus!” said McGonagall, veering towards him.  “Are you raiding the kitchen?  Is there anything to eat?”  she eyed his peach, part suspiciously, part hungrily.

He offered it to her.  “I was negotiating with the kitchen elves, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Oh please, for the last time, will you call me Minerva.  And how did negotiations go?  I hope you were hard on them?” She pushed the peach gently back in his direction.

“I didn’t think it would be conducive to good relations to force them into strike action just as the faculty arrived.  We’ve reached middle ground.”

“How much?”

“About fifteen per cent.”

“ _You_ can write to the Ministry for more money.”

“I will send the letter via Hermione Granger.”

McGonagall laughed.  “I’d be careful of that.  She might come back and say fifteen per cent is an insult.  So are we to eat tonight?”

“No, I’m afraid negotiations did not include tonight.  I recommend Hogsmeade.”  He paused a moment.  “Ma’am – who is the elf on their t-shirt?  He’s clearly significant.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up.  “Do you not know?  It’s Dobby!  Remember the one that Potter freed?  The one who was killed?”

“The Malfoy house elf?”

“About a thousand years ago…did you miss all the intervening bits?  Severus, how can you _not_ know about Dobby?”

“I can assure you it was not intentional.”

“He got Potter out of the cellar at Malfoy Manor!  Didn’t the Death Eaters talk about it?”

“I expect they weren’t best pleased about it,” said Snape, relatively certain he didn’t recall details about that.  Voldemort would have been homicidal at the thought of a house elf coming between him and Potter.  Not the sort of thing Lucius would have shared over dinner.  “Well thank you for filling me in.”

McGonagall’s astounded stare lingered a bit, then she turned back to Pomfrey who was also staring at Snape.

“Poppy – would you like to join us?”

Madam Pomfrey shook her head as her husband was expecting her home.  So McGonagall explained her presence.  “Poppy was just talking to me about her new assistant.  Have you met…what did you say her name was?”

“Diaphne.”

“Yes.  Diaphne.  Oh she was there when you had your migraine that time.  Do you remember her?”

“Yes…I know of Diaphne.”

“Apparently Diaphne shows a lot of promise as a Healer.”

“Severus,” said Pomfrey.  “You’ll remember we discussed this.  I would like for Diaphne to become qualified.”

“Oh. You’ve talked about this,” said McGonagall, a touch put out.

“Madam Pomfrey asked what would be necessary for Diaphne to qualify as a proper Healer,” said Snape.  “I believe her learning has thus far been through an apprenticeship but has been practical as a result.  If she wants to become a registered Healer, she will need a range of NEWTs, as I’m sure you know, Ma’am.”

“Aye, and oh gosh, it’s quite a raft: charms, potions, herbology, transfiguration…”

“I think Diaphne is smart enough to acquire those,” said Pomfrey, looking serious. “She is quite talented.”

“So what Poppy was asking,” said McGonagall to Snape, “was whether it would be possible for us to accommodate a mature-age student in our seventh-year classes?”

“Seventh year are, as a rule, our smallest classes.  But the lessons are the most intense.  Are you proposing if she can keep pace with seventh-years, she should be eligible to attain the NEWTs?”

“Exactly,” said McGonagall.

“Well if you are willing to consider it Ma’am, I would be supportive.  I agree with Madam Pomfrey that she does have exceptional talent.”

“Then it is settled,” said McGonagall, dusting her hands.  “Hogwarts will subsidise her education if she agrees to stay with the School for a period of time.  I don’t want her running off to St Mungos the minute she takes her Oath.  Severus, can you please enrol her before school starts?”

“Certainly Ma’am.”

She would be in his seventh year potions class, the one he’d always worked the hardest, expected the most from, the group he personally hand-picked for success.  She had the natural ability, but did she have the staying power and the discipline?  Could he be as impartial with her as the others, or was he going to be subjected to constant flashbacks of her in her tiny room at the infirmary, smiling at him and hitching up her skirts to her waist as he shut her door behind him.  He felt heat rising up his neck now just thinking about it.

“Severus?  Did you hear me?”

“Sorry Ma’am?”

“Minerva!  And where did you want to eat?”

* * *

 

It was 10:08am on Tuesday 8th August and Snape was standing on the Charing Cross Station platform waiting for Servius’ train to arrive from Trowbridge.  Although slightly too warm, he’d worn a single-breasted black wool overcoat to look a little less conspicuous whilst amongst the Muggles, with a black leather satchel to carry items from Diagon Alley, where most of the day was planned to be spent.

As the train wheezed to a stop and passengers began to disembark, he scanned the crowds for Servius.  The boy was travelling alone, and he didn’t want to consider the consequences if he somehow slipped his grasp and ended up wandering about London unattended.  But Servius stepped off the carriage and, as children are won’t to do, stood exactly in the way of every other passenger trying to alight.  But he was looking about him, looking for him.

“Servius,” called Snape, heading towards him, and he was spotted.  Their eyes met: acknowledgement, but no smile.  Servius, who appeared to have been shelved like a mannequin since the last time Snape had seen him, so identically did he present to the first visit, hitched the strap of his rucksack a little higher and ambled towards him.

“Hi,” mumbled Servius, and stared pointedly at everything but Snape. He raked his hair out of his eyes.

“Trip alright?”

“Yep.  Fine.”

Snape hesitated.  He had said to Charity’s photo that he would try harder this time, try to replicate the sort of things fathers did.  He had envisaged himself putting a fatherly arm around Servius’s shoulders, or ruffling his hair, or tell him why he was looking forward to him starting Hogwarts.  But presented now with an embodiment of surly disinterest, he realised any of those gestures would seem ridiculous and would earn him nothing but rebuke.  So he squared his shoulders and said, “Right.  Then let’s go.”

Apart from the occasional safety caution or direction, the walk to The Leaky Cauldron was in silence.  Without stopping they went straight through the pub to the wall for Diagon Alley, which Snape opened, and once they were on the Main Street, Snape said, “I have business at the apothecary and the bank, and then we can pick up the owl.  Then I have a lunch appointment.”

“I want to get the owl first,” was Servius’s instant rebuttal.

“Then you would have to carry it around all Diagon Alley in its cage.”

“So?”

“Apart from the burden, it would be unsettling for the owl.  Did you do any research about owl-keeping since we were here last?”

“Yeah. I Googled it.”

“You what it?”

“I looked it up on the internet.  You know, Google?  It’s better than Yahoo!”

Snape frowned at him.  “The computer.  I see.  Well I don’t know what your research told you, but my understanding of owls is that they prefer to be free and don’t like being jostled about in a cage for hours.  So we will get the owl last.  Keep up.”  Snape turned on his heel towards the northern end of Daigon Alley, but Servius did not move.

“You do what you want.  I’m going to see the owl.”

“No.  You’re staying with me.  You’re too inexperienced to be on Diagon Alley by yourself.”

“I’m eleven!”

“I know.  Too young.  We’ve wasted ten minutes on this conversation, I could have been halfway through the bank queue by now,” Snape’s tone was getting flinty.   “Do as you’re told.”

“I told you!  You’re not my dad!” Servius’s voice rose sufficiently for two witch’s (carrying a wicker basket full of black kittens) to turn and look. 

Snape’s hand started towards his wand, but he caught himself.  The effort to control his irritation made his nostrils flare and his jaw clench.  “I’m not doing this again Servius.  You proved your point last time.  I’m not trying to be your father, I am simply being an adult in charge of your welfare.  Let’s…. [stilted breath] …cooperate.”

The thing was, Snape’s feelings on the matter had moved seismically since the last time he’d seen Servius.  He’d seen photos of him as a baby and toddler.  He had in his pocket right now a delightful image of him being nuzzled by his mother.  He knew that Servius had been born as agreeable a baby as any, and that there was now a part of him that wished fervently he’d seen the first steps, the first words, the infant gurgle laugh.  Even as he regarded pre-teen Servius now, who was glaring at him, hating him, his mouth clamped shut in defiance, he was marvelling at it.  _Look at that: my eyes, my mouth, I’m right there. He’s me wishing I was dead_.

“Let’s do a deal,” said Snape.  “Cooperate with me, and I’ll teach you a hex.  Did you bring your wand?”

Servius’s eyes widened a fraction.  The scowl lifted.  “Course.  For real?”

“I am a man of my word.”

The fact that Servius had brought his wand without being told to occasioned a silent, impressed golf-clap from Snape.  Thank Merlin the boy took after his father and not his mother in that respect.  Ollivander had been right.

“Fine,” muttered Servius, allowing his scowl to return so that Snape didn’t run away with himself in self-congratulatory victory.  Snape kept his face carefully neutral.

They proceeded on Snape’s agenda.  Through Gringotts and the Apothecary (in which Snape personally stockpiled ingredients for Diaphne’s potion], Servius made his dissatisfaction known in as many ways as he had at his disposal.  He complained remorselessly, swore audibly, he lounged against walls, slouched, touched anything delicate, valuable or polished, fiddled with his zipper and the ties of his hood, burped loudly, scratched visibly and repeatedly, slid down hand railings and rolled his eyes so many times they would soon dislocate from their sockets.   Then Snape’s patience ran out. 

“How is that cooperating?” Snape demanded in the street, juggling is bag full of ingredients so that he could shrink them, and also draw breath after the agonising bill.

“What?” retorted Servius, outraged.  “I haven’t got my owl!”

“You were awful!  I told you to cooperate!”

“I did!  I went with you to all those super boring places and you said if I did that I could get my owl and you would teach me a hex!”

“When I say cooperate, I mean stand quietly!” lashed Snape, though even in his own head he knew how unreasonable this was.  Eleven-year olds couldn’t stand quietly if their lives depended on it.  “And stop rolling your eyes!”

“You roll your eyes all the time!”

Aaargh, it was true.  Snape was an inveterate eye-roller.  It had infuriated the Death Eaters.  What else did you do when you couldn’t say anything to a person too stupid to live?

“Fine!  Fine!  But I’m telling you – eye rolling will get you into trouble with friends.  Not to mention all those other things – were you raised in a barn? Next time, I want you to stand quietly, do I make myself clear?”

“You should’ve said that!”

“Yes!  I should!  Merlin, you are going to be a lawyer to boot.  Right.  Owl then.”

Snape marched off in the direction of the Owl Emporium and Servius followed in a half-run, his face, which Snape did not see, a sudden portrait of exhilaration and elation.

After about twenty minutes at the Emporium waiting to be served, and the short-eared owl being fetched from the store room, and a large bag of equipment being explained, and the owl’s Post Office registration details being confirmed and approved, including band on the owl’s leg, Servius and Snape were free to leave.  Servius carried the owl in its bell-shaped cage, ignoring the recommendation to cover it so that he could gaze at it adoringly.  The owl was clearly unimpressed with the situation and its eyes kept widening in alarm, and it would half-extend its wings in attempt to gain balance, and then it would bob its head about looking, for an owl, quite consternated.

Servius said, as they re-entered the street, holding the owl to eye-height, “I’m calling him Tāne.”

“Tāne?  What’s that?” asked Snape, partly listening, glancing up and down the street trying to find a clock as Potter was meeting him at 1pm.  He really did need a timepiece. 

“He’s a god of forests and birds.”

“That’s not Latin or Greek.”

“No.  It’s Maori.  Tāne is a Maori god.”

Snape glanced at him.  Servius was poking a finger through the cage, entranced, which didn’t appear to be reciprocated.

“You…Googled…that, did you?”

“Yup.  I wanted to call him Artemis, but she’s a girl.”

Snape bit his tongue.  It wasn’t from a book, but at least he’d learned something.

“Right.  Well now is the time for my lunch appointment.  So you will need to keep yourself amused while I’m talking.  You have the information from the Emporium, so I suggest you read that.”

“How long’s this going to take?”

“I don’t know.”

“When are you going to teach me the hex?”

“I don’t know.”

Snape had started marching again, or an approximation of it considering it was almost impossible to keep a straight line on the Alley.

“Can I go to the sweet shop?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re about to have lunch.”

“Can I have sweets instead of lunch?”

“No!”

Snape sighed heavily as they reached the Leaky Cauldron.  They entered the dim, smoky pub and went through to the dining room where they took seats at a table.  Tom the barman was heading towards them, wiping his hands on his apron, bald head glowing under the lamplight.  “Hallo again, Professor.  Unusual to have you here this often.  And this is the young lad again?  How’s it?”

Servius ignored Tom, and Snape couldn’t help it – he cuffed him.  “Mind your manners!” But Servius made a big show of indignation about the cuffing and Tom waved it off.

“A whisky, thanks Tom – I’ll order in minute.  Now what do you want to eat, Servius?”

After much deliberation and cajolery in which Servius glowered at every item on the menu, particularly if it was something that couldn’t be also given to an owl, Tom said, “I have my own recipe for a cracker of an ice-cream sundae.  How about that?  But I wouldn’t give to your owl, I hear they don’t like exploding things.”

Servius looked interested and Snape had given up trying to insist on anything even remotely resembling nutrition.  He may has well have let Servius have sweets for lunch. 

“I didn’t know you served ice-cream,” said Snape to Tom.

“I don’t.  I’ll nip over to Fortescue’s - no bother.  Now, it was a whisky, wasn’t it?  Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger Professor,” said Tom, winking and nodding his head in the direction of Servius.

Only moments after Tom had departed, there was movement at the pub entrance and a raised murmur of excitement from the patrons in the vicinity, including a shouted: “Wotcher, Harry!”  

The Famous Harry Potter had arrived.

Snape half-stood to get his attention, and Potter, seeing him, nodded, then once he’d finished shaking various hands and slapping backs, crossed the pub to join him.  Snape noticed the smart, MoM monogrammed outfit he wore, the combed hair which he still wore over his brow in efforts to conceal his lightning scar.  That itself had faded considerably.  “Thanks for coming, Professor,” said Potter, shaking his hand again.  “Have you ordered?”

“Only a whisky -,”

Potter was then immediately distracted by Servius, sitting in the adjacent chair and making hooting noises at his owl through the cage that had been placed on the table.  Servius’s rucksack had been deposited in the seat meant for Potter, and Snape reached over to move it.

“Ah, this is Servius…” muttered Snape, knowing introductions and explanations were imminent.  “Take the owl off the table – we’re in a restaurant…”

“Are you picking up a student early?” asked Potter, looking puzzled.

A brilliant excuse had been handed to Snape, and if Servius hadn’t been sitting there, listening all of a sudden, he may well have run with it.  But Servius was – uncharacteristically – interested in what Snape had to say.  It was a challenge.

“Servius is, ah, in fact…. it turns out…my son.”

Potter stared at Servius.  Servius pushed his hair out of his eyes and shrugged.  “Worse luck, eh?”

Potter, open-mouthed, turned back to Snape, eyes almost as wide as his glasses, slowly shaking his head.  “Seriously?  I mean, really?  I mean, _really?_ ” He forced an emphasis of delighted surprise.

Snape sat down rather heavily in his chair by way of answer.

Gradually taking his seat, Potter extended his hand to Servius, who shook it.  “Hello Servius.  Wow, you really do look like your Dad.  My name is Harry.”

“Hi,” mumbled Servius, and turned back to his owl.

“Nice owl,” said Potter, inclining his head towards it.  Snape could tell he was trying not to stare at Servius too much.  He leaned over and poked a finger through the bars of the cage to scratch Tāne’s head.  “What’s his name?”

“Tāne.”

“Nice.  God of forests.  Very nice.”

Servius smiled at Potter, who grinned back, then the exchange being over, returned his attention to Snape.  “Where have you been hiding him?” he asked surreptitiously.

“Potter, there isn’t enough time in the world to explain how my life unravels.  Suffice it to say, we are recently acquainted.  He is starting Hogwarts in a few weeks.”

Tom came through and dropped off the whisky, made a big fuss of Potter with a complimentary Butterbeer, and took orders for lunch.  When he’d left, Potter said, “Ron and Hermione send their best wishes. Ginny too.  Hermione really wanted to come today but I told her no. Hope you don’t mind.”

Snape couldn’t for the life of him think why Hermione Granger would want to see him, but said, “Well…uh, thank them for me.  I read how well they’re doing; I’m glad Miss Granger finished her education.”

“Not Ron?” laughed Potter.  Snape diplomatically kept silent.

“My reasons for wanting to meet with you are…well I suppose they’re personal in nature.  Ginny and I are married now, did you know?”

Snape half shook, half nodded his head.  The correct answer was that he’d guessed it.

“And we have a son!” he declared.  Snape raised his brows in a congratulatory fashion.  “James.  He’s two.”

“That’s my name,” said Servius suddenly, he’d evidently been listening.  “But I use my middle name.”

“Your first name is James?” said Potter incredulously, looking from Servius to Snape. 

“I didn’t name him,” retorted Snape. “Less flapping ears, Servius.  Grownups talking.”  Then he couldn’t quite believe he’d referred to Potter as a grown up.  “Congratulations.”

Potter smiled self-deprecatingly at the hopelessly utilitarian acknowledgement.

“Anyway, my point is, when you become a parent, you start to think a lot about your own parents, right?  You start to think about how they did it when they first had kids, you wonder about how they felt, and you start to appreciate what they did for you.  Except for me, though, it just made me angry.  I listen to Ginny, I see Ginny with her parents and how great Molly and Arthur are as grandparents and how much Molly says to Ginny about when she was a little kid.  And I’m still angry about what happened to my parents.  I’m still angry about the Dursleys, and the more James grows, the worse it seems to get.  And then I started to get angry about you, too.”

“I see.”  Perhaps Tom was right – was there anything stronger than Firewhisky?  Listening to Potter, Snape realised he’d barely thought about his own parents since Servius had arrived on the scene. He simply didn’t have a file referenced as parenting, let alone with his own parents in it.  He’d largely defined his own childhood as a survival marathon. 

But zeroing in on Potter’s final sentence, Snape looked up and saw that the green eyes had taken on an edge.

Tom returned at this point bearing a magnificent multi-coloured bowl containing a small mountain of ice-cream, extravagant toppings including small exploding balls on the top, even two sparkler type fireworks.  While Servius’s eyes enlarged enough to contain it all, the owl became agitated.

Potter stood and grabbed a coat he’d draped over his chair, which he placed over the owl’s cage.  “Those exploding things will scare Tāne, Servius.  This is kinder.  You can take it off again when you’re finished.”

Servius nodded, and with a mouthful of ice-cream smiled his thanks at Potter.   Snape watched the easy, informal connection that seemed to have formed between the pair, not in the slightest surprised that Potter was a natural father, gifted at it. 

When he’d sat back down, and taken a long drink from his beer, Potter had relaxed again. “Professor, until a couple of weeks ago, you were believed dead.  What I’d seen in the Pensieve, you know, from you – it raised more questions than answers, I had a thousand questions - for years - which I thought would never be resolved.  Things not even Dumbledore could or would tell me. Can I ask you some things?  I mean, it’s up to you if you don’t want to say -,”

“Glad you understand that, Potter.”

“So it’s okay?” Potter’s expression switched from earnest and appealing to reflective.  A quick glance at Servius confirmed the boy was absorbed in his dessert.   “Then I’m going to start at the top.  When I was at Hogwarts, I mean, from eleven, same age as Servius – why did you make the hate so personal?  I wasn’t my Dad.  And you knew the responsibility I was carrying, you knew about that long before I did.  Why did you let your baser instincts get the better of you?”

Aghast, Snape spluttered on his latest sip of whisky.  He’d thought he’d been prepared for some questions, but this was a sword between the shoulder-blades.    “Right.  Now listen, Potter.  We’ve both been through a lot.  We fought on the same side.  We both got closer to Voldemort than was strictly healthy.  I needed eight years on my own to come to peace with it, so why would you want to go raking over those old coals?”

Potter wasn’t giving up.  “I’m looking for some closure, Professor.  I could go for hours and hours of Muggle counselling – which I can’t because how can I talk about my life with a Muggle? – but it wouldn’t help anyway.  I have too many questions.  How could a counsellor help me come to terms with the fact that I had a highly influential teacher in my life who was charged with my protection, but who went out of his way to humiliate, degrade and victimise me?  My parents weren’t there, my guardians demonised me and you – you were meant to look out for me, for the love of my mother, and yet I felt nothing but hatred from you.  From the first class.  You never explained why.   I’m scared about all this anger I have.  It’s not fair on James.  It’s not fair on Ginny either.”

Snape’s blood had chilled and he stared hard at the table in front of him.  The first potions class with Potter, the presumption he’d acted on that the boy would be arrogant, the decision to knock him off his pedestal at the first encounter: he’d filed it all away, oh so casually.  The arrogance had rested entirely and exclusively with Snape.  He’d appraised Potter as ‘doing alright, seems fine’ and surmised that no lasting damage had occurred. 

“What are you looking for?  What do you want from me?”  This whole meeting, he was starting to conclude, had been a bad idea.  He wondered how he had ever gone about his life during those years at Hogwarts thinking he’d never be asked to explain himself.

“If you loved my mother so much, why did you hate me?”

Snape understood that Potter was referring to the memories he’d seen in the Pensieve.  What the boy had collected in the flask, and later looked at, had been somewhat indiscriminately released – it was as if Snape had simply dropped on him a photo album containing a life’s-worth of photos, hoping Potter would be able to search it and find what he needed.  There hadn’t been time, he hadn’t the energy to filter anything.   Apart from anything else, Snape had been ready to die – it hadn’t seemed that important at the time if closely guarded secrets were finally allowed some light.  Snape hadn’t seen the memories that had been collected, he didn’t know exactly which ones Potter had seen.  But he guessed Lily had been in there.

“I thought I was dead, Potter,” said Snape, barely audible, never sure when Servius was listening.  “You were never meant to know about…about that.”

Snape glanced at his son.  The lad was immersed in his dessert.  “I wonder if this is the right time, Potter?”

Potter heaved a sigh and sat back in his chair.  “Perhaps you’re right.  I didn’t know we were going to be joined by…by…” He tilted his head in Servius’s direction.

“Perhaps another time?” The words came out strangled; he never wanted another time.

“Would you be willing?”

“No. Willing is not a word I’d choose.  But since you know half the truth, it wouldn’t be fair for me to withhold the rest.  I’ve become very familiar lately with the sensation of only knowing part of things.”

Their meals arrived, and Snape and Potter began to eat.  Strangely, it wasn’t an uneasy atmosphere.  There was so much history between them, so many unexpected parallels, that they were more like distant relatives now.  They were old guards coming together. 

“How are you finding parenthood?” Potter asked presently, when Servius - having consumed his ice-cream at an indecent speed – had wandered off to show his owl to some Post owls.

Snape was still reeling, but he gathered enough wherewithal to respond.  “I wouldn’t say I’ve had enough time with him to have described our relationship in those terms.  He refuses to acknowledge I’m his father and I regard him as a student I’m obliged to care-take.”

“Does he live with you?  How did it all happen?”

“No.  He’s been raised by his grandparents.  They’re Muggle.  And since I know you’re burning to ask, I’m not telling you who his mother is.”

Potter looked at him askance, then after swallowing a mouthful said, “Was it…Professor Burbage?”

Snape didn’t answer but frowned furiously.

“Sir, we all saw it.  You were much nicer for a while.  For a bit we thought you were making Remus Lupin sick and we thought that must have been making you happier.  But then we saw you with…Professor Burbage.”

Snape remembered the goblets of Wolfsbane, the glares from the Gryffindors.  Did they honestly think he was slowly poisoning a work colleague right under Dumbledore’s nose?  And now Lupin was dead, his child orphaned, all the Marauders dead.  He recalled Lupin in his DADA classroom, confessing almost, that there might have been a time, once, when he and Snape might not have been enemies.  Lupin, too, had been a broken boy in search of friends. 

With immaculate timing, Tom came to their table with the bottle of Firewhisky.  “Top up, Professor?”

“Please,” whispered Snape, lifting his tumbler.  Potter watched closely.  What he saw, interpreted from Snape’s face, only he knew. 

When Tom had left, Snape raised his glass.

“Potter – you’ve mentioned Professor Burbage, Lupin.  We’ve outlived them, rightly or wrongly.  I – I wish I hadn’t.  To those who gave their lives.”

Potter raised his beer silently.  Then he murmured, “I am so sorry about Professor Burbage.”

Snape took a searing sip of the whisky to quell the spasm of his heart.  He needed to shut things down, he was not going to show this weakness to Potter.  _What do you remember_ , he wanted to say, _what do you remember about her and I?_   But if he asked that, he would be beholden to tell Potter what he remembered about Lily, or rather, why he’d never been able to give up Lily.

He wondered if, wherever they were, Charity and Lily could have coffee together and compare notes.  Charity would shake her head over his handling of Servius, and Lily would shake her head over his handling of Potter.  The poor motherless boys, entrusted to him.  _Worse luck_ , Servius had said.

Snape raised his glass again, and forced his eyes to meet Potter’s.  There were Lily’s.  Would _her_ eyes have softened at the corners like his?  Darkened a shade from the effort of living and sleepless nights?  “And to your parents,” he said.  “Who gave you to…who gave you to us.”

Potter tried to say something but couldn’t and gulped down some beer instead.  After, he muttered, “That means a lot to me.  Hearing you say that.”

“Your father and I were never going to be civil.  But if James did to Servius what I did to you…” Snape couldn’t finish.  He couldn’t explain himself, and yet the idea that a man he loathed, but had to trust, would be given license to treat Servius despicably, without explanation, without intervention.  And he knew Charity would be the same – why had he reasoned it was justified because he’d loved Lily?

Potter had taken off his glasses and wiped his eyes roughly.  “Sir…my question was, how are you finding parenthood?  And I can tell you this: parenthood is finding you.”

 

* * *

 

Their meals were finished, they were on the dregs of their drinks and Servius was starting to get bored, pestering Snape to let him go exploring Diagon Alley by himself. 

“Have you got all your stuff for Hogwarts?” Potter asked him, staring at Servius again and unconsciously shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

“I can’t take my Gameboy or anything,” replied Servius.  “Just a bunch of books and a telescope.”

“And your owl.”

“Yeah.  Tāne.”

“And a wand?  Have you got a wand?”

Servius withdrew his wand from his rucksack and handed it to Potter, who admired it greatly.

“When you get to Hogwarts, they’ll teach you to ride a broom.”

“That’s mad,” replied the boy, but he was curious.

“And you’ll see animals you thought were only in books.”

Servius was finding it extremely difficult to continue looking scornful.  His expression was breaking up, like clouds after rain.

“I rode on the back of a Hippogriff,” Potter told him.  “It was outstanding.”

A carefully constructed aspect of disinterest was fabricated onto Servius’s face, but it was obvious he was storing the word Hippogriff away to research later.

Just then, a person arrived in the dining room fireplace in a swirl of green.  Servius jumped.  “Don’t worry,” said Potter.  “That’s how people get around in our world.  Haven’t you used the Floo yet?”

Candace Peacock stepped out of the fireplace.  “Harry!” she said, upon seeing him.  “Taking a long lunch?  Afternoon, Professor Snape.”

“One of the few perques of being the boss,” said Potter. 

“Your timing is perfect,” said Snape, standing.  “Servius has his owl, has eaten enough ice-cream for several London boroughs, and seems about ready for his afternoon nap.”

“I don’t have naps!” shot back Servius.

“Hello Servius,” said Candace and bent to admire his owl.  “Shall we get you to the train?”

“Isn’t Mr Snape taking me?  I mean…Ma said I could call him Mr Snape if I wanted.”

Snape’s eyebrows rose.  “Well…I’m not disputing your grandmother, but I’d prefer _not_ to be called Mr Snape.”

“Call him Dad, eh?” said Potter, nudging him a little.

“You haven’t taught me a hex!  You promised!”

Potter burst out laughing.  “Already?!  Shall I warn the Ministry to ignore a raft of underage magic alarms?”

“Professor?” said Candace inquiringly, her eyebrows arched.  “A hex?”

“He has a talent for them. You told me: he did the stickfast hex intuitively.”

Servius seemed gratified with this assessment.  “Can’t you take me to the train…?”  He couldn’t bring himself to use the word Dad.  “And you can teach one to me.”

Candace did not intervene, and Snape, looking at her said, “Very well.”

“Can I have a few minutes with you, Professor, in private?” said Candace, and Potter indicated he was happy to sit with Servius.

Candace led Snape though to the adjoining pub and said, “When I was with the Burbage’s this morning, they wanted me to pass something on to you.  There have been plans made for Christmas.  Charity’s ex, Jason: his parents live in Spain.  They’ve invited the Burbage’s, and Jason and Holly.  But not Servius.  They thought he would be with you this Christmas.”

“They’re rejecting him?”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that.  But the family are trying to reconnect…Professor, I think it would be a good idea to spend some time with Servius this Christmas, over the holidays.”

He glanced over at his son, talking conspiratorially with Potter.  He remembered the Christmas’s Potter had spent at Hogwarts, shunned.

“Yes.  I see.  Yes.  I will make arrangements so that he doesn’t need to learn that he wasn’t invited to Spain.  Can you communicate that to the Burbage’s before he arrives home this afternoon?  I don’t want him thinking he’s not wanted.”

Candace smiled at him.  “I’d be delighted to do that.  I’m sure he’ll have a better Wizarding Christmas anyway.”

He wasn’t sure how, but Snape would see to it.

Meanwhile, as Snape and Candace were talking, Potter said to Servius: “So.  You’ll be learning how to make magic potions with your Dad.  Are you looking forward to that?”

“No.”

Potter laughed.  “Nobody warned me.  I must admit, I hated your Dad’s classes.”

“Can’t you make magic potions?”

“Actually, turns out I could.  Not at first though.  Your Dad was very strict.”

“I think he’s horrible.”

“Oh, hey,” said Potter, with a gentle frown. “You hardly know him.  He’s actually…well your Dad’s a…”

“He made soap come out of my mouth.”

Potter burst out laughing again, and nodded.  “Your Dad’s different.  He’s…I think he misses your Mum.  I’m guessing that when you get to know each other, you’ll be best mates. No one can teach hexes better than him.”

 

 

Snape walked Servius back to the train station.  The proper screening sheet for the cage had been put over Tāne, and instead of trailing behind him, Servius kept pace with his father.  This, of course, necessitated a short trot every fifth step or so.

On the way, Snape taught him the sneezing hex.  He chose it because it was simple, might be possible for Servius to inflict without needing his wand, and would not be so unusual in the Muggle world that anyone would suspect anything.  Plus, it was actually a good self-defence hex: it was very difficult to carry on doing anything while overcome with sneezing.

“You say: _Steleus_ ,” instructed Snape as they walked.  “It’s called an incantation, then you use your wand – and that’s what makes the hex happen.  You can practice it at Hogwarts when you get there.”

Servius had been listening closely.  “ _Steleus!_ ” he announced determinedly, and whether he intended it or not, Snape wasn’t sure, but a person walking behind them sneezed. 

Snape, astonished, first checked the person behind them – a man in a business suit who looked confused – and then at Servius.  The expression on the boy’s face made Snape’s heart skip a beat: a smile from ear to ear that virtually dazzled – a smile that lived in Snape’s heart, one he’d never been able to resist – and the eye not concealed behind a flop of black hair was sparkling.

 _“Steleus!”_ said Servius again, and two teenage girls, coming towards them arm in arm, both sneezed identically.  They looked suspiciously at Servius, seeming to make a perplexed connection, but Servius kept his head down and kept walking.

“Servius, that’s enough,” said Snape quietly, flabbergasted, but a chuckle rumbled up from somewhere deep, and his hand found its way to the top of his son’s head and he ruffled the hair.

The remainder of the walk to the station was in silence, unless the odd objecting hoot could be counted.  On the platform for the train to Trowbridge, Snape and Servius stood awkwardly, conscious that a brick had been knocked off the wall between them and unsure as to what action should be taken.  At length, Snape cleared his throat and said, “There will be holidays for Christmas.  I have said to Ms Peacock that you will be spending them with me.”

“What?  No way!  I’m going home for Christmas.”

“I can assure you that you will have never had a Christmas of the like at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade.”

“Christmas at school?” Servius looked appalled.  “Uh-uh, I’m going home.”

“It has already been decided.  I am your father and I have sent directives about where you’ll be for the holidays.”

“Well you can un-direct them because I’m telling Ma and Pa I don’t want to spend Christmas with you at the dumb-arse school.” Daggers filled the air between them.  “You don’t need to wait with me, I know which train to catch.”  Servius turned, showing his back to Snape, lifting the sheet to check on his owl.

The brick had been restored, the wall was intact and Snape hardened.  He imagined a scene – Servius stumbling across his grandparents packing for Spain, explaining to him that he wasn’t invited.  His half-sister was, his grandparents were – but not him.  The son of a strange man they didn’t know, the black sheep.  “We’ll be Christmasing together, and that’s final,” growled Snape.  “And I am staying here until you get on the train.”

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, a late summer storm closed its iron-grey, cold cloak around the Scottish Highlands.  Swept in on the tail of the languid, lazy heat, it punished the gasping moors with hail and flash-flooding, flushing feral sheep from their hiding spots and herds of deer, the males with velvet straggling on their new-season antlers, hurried into the protection of forests and copses. 

Inside Hogwarts, the top storey and the turret rooves were no match for the pounding rain, and water gushed over gutters, leaked through gaps and holes in the tiles, and soaked through unpointed mortar between the stone so that whole interior walls seemed almost wet to the touch. 

McGonagall, Snape, Filch, Hagrid and three builders were rushing from room to room on the seventh floor, at the top of the towers and other spaces closest to the rooves and captured leaks as best they could with magicked funnels and stoppers, placed old-fashioned buckets beneath drips and rescued valuables from water-damage.

The activity was positive in one respect, in that some items long since believed lost were rediscovered, including an ancient grandfather clock that told time in years as well as hours, two forgotten tapestries, one portraying giants helping Merlin build Stonehenge, and a walnut case holding twenty-two unidentified wizards hats.  One was believed to have been owned by Salazar Slytherin.

As Snape was in the middle of rolling up valuable Persian rugs in Room No. 3 of the seventh floor, Diaphne burst through the heavy oakwood door – it having taken almost her entire weight to force open – and stood in the entrance, soaked, dripping, her skirts spattered with mud, her damp hair lank and bedraggled, her chest heaving with the effort of having run seven flights of stairs. 

“Professor,” she breathed, and her eyes were somewhere between repudiation and relief.  “We are meant to be…”

There was a builder in the room with Snape.  At the sight of a damp, heaving, flushed Diaphne, her wet clothing clinging to every curve, her skin pink with exertion, he stood upright and stared openly, his tongue all but lolling.

Seeing this, Snape also got to his feet and frowned darkly at him.  “You!  Carry on here!  You’re not being paid to stand and gape!”

The builder gave him a peevish look but returned to his task, while Snape went to Diaphne’s side.

“The Wicce!” Diaphne entreated in muted tones, before he’d even stopped walking.  “We are supposed to see her today.”

“Now?”

“When, then?  She’s expecting you!”

Snape glanced back at the builder, kicking the rug, and he sighed.  “You’re right.  Let me tell the Headmistress.  This rain…,” he waved his hand generally then left the room, Diaphne following at a distance. 

To the rumble of distant thunder, Snape used his wand to create a _Custodio_ shield from the rain as he and Diaphne slipped and slid down the path, past a drooping, dripping Whomping Willow, to the Winged Boar gates from which they side-along Disapparated to the Wicce’s infirmary.

The infirmary was located on an island in the Hebrides, west of The Minch, on a stubborn, swollen outcrop of stone; a single, moribund molar in a jawbone of rock, barely resisting the lure of the sea.  It bore an old lighthouse, long since abandoned, plain in comparison to its contemporaries along the turbulent coastline, but who didn’t benefit from an upward promontory, affording it eminence and stature in the eyes of old ship Commanders, wrestling the gales with nought but rudder and sail.  It had been painted white, but the paint was chipped and flaked and all but lost to the grey stone beneath, and the glass of the lantern room was broken and missing in parts. 

The keeper’s quarters that were adjoined to the lighthouse were equally modest and unremarkable, except that they had been converted, under a Muggle repelling charm, into a healing centre and infirmary.  It was run by the Wicce, and she had a small staff of witches who healed and rehabilitated lost, broken and destitute types who, for whatever reason, didn’t make it through the department store doors of St Mungos. Sometimes it was because the patient didn’t want to go to St Mungos – this was often the result of having dabbled, unsuccessfully or incautiously or – indeed, illegally - in the Dark Arts.  Sometimes it was because St Mungos was impractical – getting a patient from the Scottish Highlands to London, even if apparition was possible, could be an unwelcome risk.  Sometimes the patient was stumbled upon by one of the witches – such was the case of Severus Snape, and, currently, two Muggle fishermen, presumed drowned, who’d been dragged out of the Atlantic onto the witch’s broom and bedded, cosseted and rejuvenated by two adoring young Healers, to each of whom the fishermen had proposed several times, having become resistant to the idea of making their miraculous lives and whereabouts known back in Muggledom.

Snape and Diaphne Apparated outside the entrance to the infirmary and were almost blown off their feet clear of the rock, into the deafening roar of the frothing sea.  The storm was wilful this far off the coast, unrestrained and defiant, and tantrumed all around the island with nothing to throw about but the salty foam from wild waves.

The door of the infirmary was wrenched open and Diaphne and Snape bundled inside, slamming it shut behind them.  The wind howled mournfully at the confiscation.

Standing there to meet them was the Wicce.  Imperious and matronly, she stood straight and tall, enrobed in damask of bronze and claret, with a silk scarf around her hair and had her arms crossed as if they were teenage lovers late coming home.  “Diaphne.  Professor.  You are lucky to have made it here.”

They were soaked, windswept, their voices had been robbed of them by the gale.  Overcome, Snape simply nodded.  The Wicce took out her Mandrake wand and waved it across them, and they were immediately dry and revived.

Snape remembered the infirmary well, having spent eighteen months in the care of Diaphne and the Wicce, exclusively for the first three months, then at intervals thereafter, taking increasingly longer trips away from the rock as if he were a recuperated creature being returned to the wild.  He kept coming back, even after released, because of the calming, steadying, undemanding ambience of the infirmary – the trauma took much longer to heal than his wounds – and also, if he were honest, because of Diaphne’s welcoming, uncomplicated arms, the warmth of her bed, the sensation of being wanted without question when she took him under the covers.

They made use of him.  Snape’s vast knowledge of potions, healing herbs and the experience he’d gained helping in the Hospital Wing was quickly tapped by the Wicce, and before long the pair worked companionably in running the infirmary.  He felt it repaid the debt, somewhat, for their having saved his life.

But Snape – he is a complex man, even if he needed respite for while – and he soon became restless for diversions and challenges.  Like an untamed bird, he began to morph into his blackwinged, soaring adaptation and took to the Hebridean skies, circling once above the lighthouse rock, then disappearing into the clouds bound for destinations only he knew of.  And one day, he never returned.

The Wicce, however, seemed unsurprised to see him today.  She was a formidable sorceress and Snape had a respect for her ability only succeeded by Dumbledore.  Much of his decision to roam Europe in search of Dark Arts had been excited by his learning from her, and he understood completely why Tom Riddle had been drawn to her.

She led the pair from the entrance parlour, along the centre aisle of the infirmary – clean and bright, even in the lamplight which was necessary on such a gloomy day – past several patients in various stages of recovery in their beds, and through into the adjacent workrooms.  These were for the purposes of cleaning, cooking and storage.  Beside these rooms was a wooden staircase, and at the foot of it, just before ascending, it was possible to discern moaning, wailing and erratic yelling, emanating from hidden-away places, perhaps from the unlit rooms at the end of austere corridors, Snape never found out.  They were the ones driven mad, or born mad, or made insane by dark magic and who couldn’t be repaired, completing their existence as permanent residents in the care of the Wicce.  Snape despaired at the sound of them, half morbidly curious, but mostly afraid, scared to witness a fate he felt he so, so easily could have met.

Having climbed the stairs they finally reached their objective – a room along an upper corridor, to which she opened the door and admitted them, following herself and shutting the door firmly behind.

This was the Wicce’s office and consultation room, although it was far from typical.  The Wicce did not subscribe to modern, scientific medicine or treatments.  In fact, she was even a bit suspicious of what they did in St Mungos.  Her rooms revealed a study and dedication to pagan and ritualistic healing, ancient healing magic deeply rooted in nature and otherworldly origins.

From the image of the storm raging outside her one small window, Snape’s eyes scanned the room, re-living his times in here.   The shelves of bottles, flagons, copper boxes, pots and tins, the sheaves of herbs, the dangling ropes of garlic, hops and seaweed, the array of various animal parts, indescribable mummified objects and a full human skeleton suspended on a stand.  The ceiling displayed a map of the constellations, and only a square of empty space remained on her wooden desk, every other inch bearing books, jars, candelabra’s, inkpots, scrolls and goblets.  At the foot of her desk was a metal bucket containing a dark swill of foul-smelling liquid, a stirrer sticking out of it.  Snape was careful to keep a distance from it.

The Wicce was lighting stubs of candles. She flicked her eyes to him once and said, “Diaphne tells me, Professor, that you have been suffering migraines.  They are not, of course, migraines.  It is brain injury.  Sit.”

Snape took a seat in one of the leather padded chairs in the room, Diaphne took another.

“They’ve been getting worse, Wicce,” said Snape.  “They occur predictably when I use my memory – specifically when I try to remember or have memories of my time with Charity.  Diaphne told me that there was a ritual in which my memories have been erased.  Was it Memoriam Delens?”

“It was.  So you told him, Diaphne?”

The Wicce had come to Snape’s side, and with a discreet twist of her wand, the chair he was in tilted back.  She reached above her and cranked down a Gaslamp that was affixed to an extendable arm and turned up the light inside it.

“Aunt, I felt under the circumstances -,”

“Were it anyone else, I would have been furious,” responded the Wicce, her expression seeming to be on the verge of it anyway,  “but given it is the Professor – there is not much left for him to learn about us, and I trust, Professor, in the last years you’ve been away that our secret has been safe?”

“I haven’t breathed a word.”

“You accepted the terms of the ritual, Professor.  You were aware at the time of the risks.  You wanted to proceed anyway.” The Wicce was laying her hands on his forehead, top and back of his skull, temples.  She had the firm, practised hands of someone who had performed similar movements a thousand times, her fingertips able to read things invisible to her eyes.

“I have read that the risks…the side effects…can be fatal?”

“In rare cases.  Rare cases.”  She placed over her right eye some kind of optical instrument and brought Snape round to face her.  “I need to look into your pupils, Professor, I need to see through to the cerebellum.”

He sat still while she examined both eyes.  She smelt faintly herbal, earthy.

“It was a while ago now…ten years or so?  But I do remember the ritual becoming difficult because you were resistant.  Your occlumency was too sophisticated.  And I was forced out of a Legilimens; I don’t like it when that happens.  Did you feel much troubled in the days following the ritual?”

“Yes.  It was very painful.  But it passed and then I felt relatively normal for years.”

“Voldemort was in your head a lot.  He’s not gentle.  Did you have headaches when he performed Legilimens?”

“Yes.  Often.”

The Wicce breathed heavily out of her nostrils and pulled off her optical device.  “There is damage, Professor.  Nerve cells destroyed, neurotransmitters can’t perform properly.  I can see a type of scarring which might be causing some bleeding I’m not sure.  It is as if when you use the part of your brain for storing memories you are tearing brain cells, and undoing damaged tissue.  My fingers picked up damage around here -,” She reached around and touched the back of his skull, close to where it connected to his spine.  “I can’t give you a prognosis, but it is unlikely it will heal itself.”

“Is there a cure?” Diaphne asked urgently, her anxiety clear in her voice.

“I have heard that having access to the removed memories stops the memory function trying to search for it, stops the constant flexing.  It doesn’t heal it, but it helps manage the symptoms.”

“Diaphne’s potion helps a great deal.”

“It addresses the pain.  A premium inhibitor.”

“Where are my memories, Wicce?” asked Snape softly, looking into her dark, inscrutable eyes.  “Charity is…dead.  I have a son.  I can’t teach with these migraines.  I need to restore the memories.”

The Wicce made a surprised grunt and Diaphne exclaimed: “You have a son?”

“She was pregnant when we performed the ritual,” said the Wicce.  “I remember.  And now she is dead.  I am very sorry for you, Professor.  And so, the unborn child was yours all along?”

“That means your son would be eleven?” said Diaphne.  “You didn’t remember she was pregnant?”

“The memories will help me understand what went on.  People tell me things, I have bits, items…my son doesn’t know why I wasn’t there for him.”

The Wicce raised the back of his chair again and cranked away the gaslight.  Then she went to behind the desk and sat down in her own seat, one that had been wrapped with reindeer skin, and picked up a quill from an inkpot.  She began to write.  “I don’t know where the memories are, Professor.  There were instructions you wrote for yourself to secure them away.  I always recommend that the patient store the memories rather than destroy them, which is often the request in a fit of pique.”

“They were put in a Witch’s Bottle,” Diaphne said, although he already knew this.  “The bottle is sealed with wax, the memories can’t escape.  Wherever you put the bottle, the memories are in it.”

“I’ve looked for them,” he said, defeatedly. “I can’t find them.  There was the battle.  Could they have been destroyed somewhere in the castle?”

The Wicce and Diaphne both looked at him silently, Diaphne’s face one of anguish on his behalf. 

The Wicce moved her mouth a bit, in what Snape ultimately decided was meant to be a smile.  She had never been the affectionate type. “Professor, under normal circumstances, I would _obliviate_ you after our consultation today.  But…despite my better judgement…I trust you.  Plus, I think your brain needs to avoid any further interposition.  Here: this is the recipe for the pain inhibitor potion.  Good luck finding your memories.”

Snape stood and took the piece of parchment.  “Thank you.  But, Diaphne is at Hogwarts and has free access to the brewing room.  She has been making the potion perfectly.”

“No.  Diaphne won’t be returning.  She is needed here.” The Wicce put her quill into its cap stand in a final gesture.

Diaphne jumped to her feet.  “What?  No, I work at Hogwarts now.”

“I need you here, Diaphne.  Your mother approves.  Imogen can’t leave now.”

“No! I want to live in Hogsmeade!  I have a proper job!”

“I gave you an apprenticeship, Diaphne.  Now is the time to put it to work.” The Wicce’s voice was rising slightly.  Like all learned, wise people, it took a while to bring to the boil.  “Why do you not think this is a proper job?”

“You can’t force me!” yelled Diaphne, and Snape realised he’d never seen her looking like this, he’d never seen her angry before.  Flags of colour rose to her cheeks, her eyes were intense.  It seemed, in retrospect, that a predilection for anger would have been there all along – nobody with her passion existed only on a benign plane.

“I do not wish to force you,” replied the Wicce.  “But your parents expect you here.  They need assurance.”

Diaphne was opening her mouth again and, judging by her expression, about to babble something foolhardy, so Snape raised his finger to his lips and hushed her.  “Wicce,” he said, in his most composed and authoritarian voice.  “It has been agreed by the Headmistress and myself that Diaphne shows the aptitude and talent to become a qualified Healer.  She is to be offered a place in the senior year at Hogwarts and acquire her NEWTs, enough to take her Oath if she wishes.   Hogwarts will subsidise her attendance if she continues, at the same time, to work in the Hospital Wing.  This is a rare opportunity.  I can hardly believe you, or her parents, would deny her this chance.”

The Wicce, who had been listening to Snape stonily, switched her eyes to Diaphne.  “You wish to qualify as a Healer?”

Diaphne’s eyes had widened and the anger had evaporated.  “Yes, Aunt.  It would be a dream come true.  Madam Pomfrey has been discussing it with me.” She turned her gaze on Snape, her gratitude glowing.

The Wicce tutted and turned away.  It was enough for Diaphne to cross the short distance of floor and throw her arms around Snape’s neck, and then she kissed him directly on the mouth.  For a second, he was frozen, but then, remembering the feel of her lips, he instinctively responded and his whole being suddenly flared with desire.

She kissed him only a second too long.  But then she was gone.  She slipped free.

The Wicce had seen and tutted again.  “She was always dizzy about you, Professor.  From the first.”

He looked at Diaphne.  There was nothing else in the world he would have looked at just then; if she’d been a thousand miles away he would have looked for her.  His body wanted to see the object of its desire, the thing that had just electrocuted it. 

She smiled at him, but it appeared ingenuous, delighted, as if the kiss had been wholly spontaneous and innocent.

As though through a tunnel he heard the Wicce speaking.  “I will talk to your parents, Diaphne.  Return for now, look after the Professor.  I will see which others in the Coven may want an apprenticeship.”

Snape thanked the Wicce while Diaphne hugged her aunt and then he followed Diaphne out of the office and back along the length of the infirmary to the entrance.  The storm had lost some of its vigour, but it still poured outside, lightning still flashed on a green-tinted horizon.

Diaphne took his hand and pulled him out into the rain.  He gazed at her, in some kind of heated trance.  “Ready?” she asked, acting quite ordinarily, and he nodded.  Together, they Disapparated to the gates of Hogwarts.

The rain pounded down on them as they stood there.  It was slightly chilled, but steady, a simple act of precipitation and gravity now.  Snape looked at Diaphne and, again, she smiled at him, her eyes bright, her hair soaked and flattened.  “I’m heading home,” she said, glancing towards Hogsmeade.  “I’m not walking in this though!” She then laughed, and waved her wand, indicating her intent to disapparate.

Snape could not help himself, his instincts had taken the helm.  He grabbed her at the waist and pulled her up to him, then found her lips and kissed her hard.  After a moment he heard her groan, then her arms folded around his neck and she was kissing him back.  He felt her fingers entwine in the hair at his nape, pulling him towards her.  It was sweet, so warm and soft and sweet and control was being lost from his head to a tingling, pervasive heat down below.

She broke away and held his face in her hands while she kissed him on his rough, unshaven jaw, smooth cheek, lips again.  “Do you want to come to my place?” she uttered.

“Oh yes,” he mumbled in reply, the words not being issued from any place where approval was normally sought.

And so she Disapparated him back to hers, for hours, while the rain fell.

 


	10. The Wrath of Longbottom

 

Friday dawned fair. The storm left behind a world as sweet and fresh as a newborn, the earth was softened having drunk deeply, the air cleansed of haze, the birds glorying in their survival. Their song was lost to Snape in his dungeon rooms, but he woke not long after their chorus, not refreshed, however, like his feathery counterparts, but in dread over two matters.

He had lost his photo of Charity and Servius. It had fallen out of his pocket and he had covered a lot of ground yesterday. It was his only picture of her.

He was going to have to sort things out with Diaphne.

The evening before, in her cottage, he’d dressed to leave somewhat haphazardly, still feeling a little weak in the knees and dazed. She had been contrastingly chatty, clearly delighted with the turn of events, and had gone pottering about in her kitchen dressed in a sort of kimono, asking questions about Servius and offering to cook him a meal… but he made excuses. He had thanked her, extremely awkwardly, not sure if thanking was appropriate since, after all, it wasn’t as if she’d provided a service. And yet it would be worse to say nothing. So he worded his farewell as if he’d been a house guest, and apologised for the mess he’d made (the bed, he supposed) and pleaded work, which wasn’t untrue: McGonagall had expected him back three hours earlier.

She had looked rather bewildered as she’d seen him to the door, and waved unsurely as he’d strode away down the main street of Hogsmeade in the drizzle, before turning a corner and Disapparating to Hogwarts. He had been in a hurry to get back.

And now, he realised, as he arose stiffly from his bed that was adorned with Slughorn’s riotously patterned and tasselled eiderdown, he was going to have to unpick the stitching where he’d unwittingly woven himself and Diaphne together, and it would be a tough, cruel job. A part of him knew she probably deserved better. Between her, Charity, Potter and Servius, he was going for the record as some kind of category five cyclone to relationships.

But he wasn’t done, it seemed. The walking interpersonal catastrophe he had evolved into had far-reaching consequences at the periphery, that had caused damage he wasn’t even aware of, couldn’t begin to imagine.

In the Great Hall, a moderate breakfast had been prepared for the staff who were residing. When he entered, McGonagall was up at the table in Dumbledore’s old seat, hidden behind a newspaper, an enormous teapot steaming before her. Hagrid was seated to the right and along from McGonagall, next to Snape’s usual chair, mounding the carefully rationed sausages onto his plate. Pomfrey and Filch were eating silently at their respective places, and Madam Pince, it transpired, had arrived during the storm the previous day and completed the tableau. She eyed Snape beadily as he took the steps up to the High Table. He smiled formally and nodded his head at her, but she continued to stare at him over her cats-eye glasses, apparently wholly unconvinced as to his reality.

Hagrid was in the throes of a hearty welcome and about to regale Snape with a categorisation of storm-induced damage to his hut and gardens, when McGonagall announced with a flourish of newspaper: “Severus! Where were you yesterday? The Astronomy Tower was in a foot of water! Trelawney’s quarters are practically uninhabitable. Well, comparatively. I had to call Horace in from Hogsmeade.”

“I am sorry, Ma’am. My appointment was…unexpectedly long.”

He eyed the last sausage on the serving platter, but decided to invest his energy into making amends with the Headmistress and duly opted to take a seat at the empty chair beside hers.

She looked at him a touch reproachfully. “Are we still dealing with the last traces of wanderlust?”

“Ma’am?”

“Finding it hard to fit back into a work routine?”

“No,” he cleared his throat, conscious he was about to lie. “I was seeking advice on a cure for my migraines. I’m sorry it took longer than expected.” Then he added with a deflecting lift to his tone: “How can I help today since I wasn’t here yesterday?”

“There are in fact several matters,” said McGonagall, busying herself with folding the newspaper. “I would like to you take an inventory of the castle with the builder and Filch to get it ready for habitation. We have almost three-hundred children starting school soon, not to mention the teachers returning on Monday, and after yesterday’s storm I’m apprehensive about the state of the place. For years we’ve been waiting to get full access since the repairs have been on, and now have about two-thirds allegedly accessible but yesterday revealed that the assessment is unreliable. To my mind, it’s a recipe for disaster. I don’t want crushed or injured children on my watch.”

“Absolutely, Ma’am.”

“Secondly, you and I need to sit down and go through the list of faculty members and confirm all licenses, registrations and employment records are up to date. I still haven’t got a DADA license for Professor Hellmann and Agatha said the Ministry want an -,”

“Agatha? Sorry, who?”

“Agatha Froggenhall,” said McGonagall, and then looked a little alarmed. “She’s the Transfiguration Professor; she has been for the past five years.” She looked at him with the same expression she’d worn when she realised he hadn’t known about Dobby. “Oh dear, we have a bit of catching up for you to do before they all arrive on Monday.”

“Transfiguration? I just assumed…” said Snape and McGonagall shook her head.

“No, I can’t teach as well as be Head, it’s too much. But I do miss the classroom, that I’ll be honest about. Anyway, Agatha says that the Ministry are after an employer affidavit since she’s become an Animagi.”

“Her Animagus isn’t a frog is it?”

“Yes, in fact,” and McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up. “However did you know that?”

The Headmistress topped up her tea and took a moment to rub her eyes tiredly. Sleep remained elusive for her. “And lastly, it would seem I need to recruit a new Herbology professor.” She handed Snape a folded letter from beside her teacup, which had, presumably, arrived by owl earlier that morning.

Snape opened it and read:

_“Dear Headmistress McGonagall_

_I hereby tender my resignation, effective immediately this date 10 th August 2006. I apologise for the short notice, it wasn’t my intention to resign, however I feel I have no other recourse. I’m sure you’ll not be surprised to learn that I can’t in good conscience work alongside, or in any capacity with, Professor Severus Snape, whom, I have recently discovered, has been offered the position of Deputy. _

_Eight years is not long enough for my memory to fade, I’m sorry._

_I wish you, and all at Hogwarts, the very best._

_Most faithfully_

_Neville Longbottom.”_

“Oh,” said Snape inadequately, his heart sinking. “I didn’t know he was working here either. Last I heard he was an Auror.”

“He was an Auror. He started here about three years ago. Much better suited to teaching.”

“Yes, I…can imagine that.”

“When Pomona left.”

“I see.”

McGonagall stared at him, a single eyebrow arched.

“You’d like me to talk to him?”

“Aye,” a considered slurp of tea. “I’d like you to find out if there’s any possibility at all of convincing him that you are no longer his Boggart. I don’t want to start recruiting, not now, and not when he was showing so much promise. He’s exceptionally popular with the children.”

“Ma’am, I don’t believe I’ve been his Boggart since he was about fourteen -,”

“I’m speaking metaphorically. He’s clearly referring to your time here as Headmaster.”

Snape knew that, of course he did. Longbottom, in his own, unique way, had been unyielding during the occupation of Hogwarts, provoking a series of tense, dicey standoffs for Snape to manage with the Carrows, who were on orders for total suppression. Snape had been aghast and impressed at the amount of punishment the boy had been prepared to take. Though their encounters during that time had been infrequent, Snape saw that Longbottom was variously covered in bruises, welts and cuts, his uniform becoming filthier and rattier. The more the Carrows punished him, the more resilient he seemed to become, only inspired further by his grandmother’s resistance. There was something tough about the Longbottoms, unexpectedly.

Post war, when many had finally learned the truth about what Snape had been navigating, Longbottom evidently held an immovable line. How Snape – how any Headmaster – could stand by and allow students to be repeatedly subjected to Unforgivables was a moral and ethical test that Longbottom concluded Snape had failed, and failed miserably.   Where had he been, their supposed protector? It wasn’t even a question of what he could have done, but rather _should_ have done. Shades of grey and complex allegiances were not in Longbottom’s ideology.

“As I’m sure you know, Severus, the Neville Longbottom of today is not the toad-wielding, Mimbulus-cultivating boy that schooled here. He was invited by Voldemort to join the Death Eaters.”

Snape almost laughed out loud, trying to imagine the plump Longbottom getting a Dark Mark and wearing a mask. It was hard to change a frame of reference sometimes. It was equally hard to imagine Voldemort extending the invitation.

“To thank Voldemort for his kind offer, Longbottom killed Nagini with the Sword. And rather spectacularly,” McGonagall placed her tea cup down and reached for the pot handle. “You really did miss all the best bits of the battle.”

“So it appears. Rather had my own dramas going on. I knew that he had killed the snake…I was anxious to find out..that particular bit of news.”

“All I’m saying,” said McGonagall in hushed tones, “is be ready to reprise your opinion of him. You may want to have some answers ready.”

“Ma’am?”

“About why you felt it necessary to make his days here quite so torturous – oh my, bad choice of words. Needless to say, your conduct towards him resulted in several awkward letters between myself and his grandmother.”

Snape scanned back over some sketchy, never-since-consulted memories of Longbottom in his classes. “Perhaps it was because of my…conduct…that he grew up to be a snake-massacring Auror cum Herbology Professor,” he suggested lamely, becoming aware that he was due for another accountability exam from an ex-student.

“Well I doubt this will improve matters between you,” replied McGonagall, picking up the paper and placing it before him. On the front page was the lead article picture of him and Harry Potter shaking hands in the Headmaster’s office in front of Dumbledore’s portrait, with the headline: _Mysterious Hero Back from the Dead!_

“I never gave an interview,” said Snape, scanning the puff-piece, which was a journalistic potboiler allowing the paper to re-hash very tired but popular anecdotes about the war.

“Oh the Prophet never let facts get in the way of a story, Severus, you know that. Nice photo of you, by the way.”

 

* * *

Later that morning, Snape, Argus Filch and Amulius Fetherington walked, climbed and scaled Hogwarts Castle from top to bottom in a spontaneous inventory. Snape was introduced to parts he’d never seen before, as there had been no immediate need, in fact even now these far-flung, undiscovered islands of fortress were either so specialised or so antiquated that they had become unserviceable centuries ago. He inspected them partly as a formality, and partly to uncover any risk: what could happen to any wayward students if they entered this bastion or turret? What could fall down, above or below?

Fetherington did not waste the opportunity to impress upon Snape the scope and breadth of his knowledge and expertise, labouring exhaustively throughout the excursion about his work and the magnitude of his efforts from one end of the castle to the other. According to Fetherington, every block of stone had been lovingly laid by him personally, the mortar mixed by his own hand. It delighted him to show Snape parts of the castle he didn’t know, afforded him no end of self-important mocking at the ignorance of the castle’s own owners and staff, that he, a mere builder, had acquired this intelligence. “Potions can’t help you now, eh, Professor?” guffawed Fetherington, guiding him towards an exit in a distant drum tower, having been defeated by an internal baffle. Snape and Filch exchanged long-suffering looks.

Of far more interest to Snape was just how much of the structure was safe, habitable and useable. He revised McGonagall’s previous assessment of a rough two-thirds, to a more accurate three-fifths, and having prioritised drainage repair in the Astronomy Tower, released that for general purpose use. He reprioritised repair work on the far east wing to the roofs and gables, with instruction to preserve lead tiling where possible, but otherwise clay or slate, and ordered a comprehensive review of guttering and drainage throughout.

But the main conundrum on the whole expedition had come right at the end, as they inspected the dungeons. Slughorn had joined the party at this point, and they traversed the corridor where the traffic cones and danger tape had been erected, while Fetherington explained that the bearing walls were insufficiently reinforced and that erosion of the lake bed was causing the castle foundations on the west side to contract and settle, with cracks widening along the bases of the walls.

Having missed the earlier three hours and been stupefied into silence as Snape and Filch were, Slughorn made all kinds of interested and concerned noises, only encouraging Fetherington to elaborate in ever more technical detail.

At last, they entered the Slytherin Common Room, which had been Fetherington’s objective for bringing them to the dungeon. This was only the second time Snape had forayed into the room since returning to Hogwarts and was shocked to discover a skein of scaffolding and struts bracing the submerged lancet windows to the lake, decorated with more danger tape and floating, revolving warning signs.

Snape, Filch and Slughorn stopped and stared, the Emeritus murmuring a stunned “Merlin’s beard!” while Fetherington confirmed it with a sort of bumptious nodding of his head: “Ayuh, ayuh, you see what I’ve had to do? I know. Couldn’t believe it when we came across it. Probably saved a hundred lives, am I right?”

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Snape, although he already had strong suspicions.

“On the verge of imminent collapse, it is,” said Fetherington. “Got like a million cubic meters of water pressure on ‘em plus foundation erosion. The battle damage didn’t help.”

“A _million_?”

“Well I’m not no mathematician, Professor, but put it this way – wouldn’t want to be in here if that bloody great squid decides to put a sucker on the window.”

“Can they be fixed?” asked Slughorn, eyes wide, and Filch went up towards the scaffolding for a closer look.

“It’s not the glass so much,” replied Fetherington, “That’s good magic, that is. It’s the mouldings and some of the tracery on the top windows, it’s all eroded, just worn away. These’d be hundreds and hundreds of years old, under water the whole time – I mean, mortar can only do so much. Any more pressure on them: kaboom. Whole lot’ll come crashing in and you’d wanna hope the lads and lasses can swim.”

Snape stared at him momentarily, then swore voluminously. “So where have you prioritised the repair of this relative to everything else?”

“Sir – I’ve only got so many men -,”

“I do understand that. But there are the dormitories and living quarters in the dungeon. Offices. Classrooms. If these windows give way, all these areas could collapse, deluged. You must make this your first and only priority!”

“Hear, hear,” murmured Slughorn, forehead deeply furrowed.

In his mind’s eye, Snape saw Servius in the Common Room, sitting with friends when an ear-splitting crack gave just enough time for the students to turn to the sound of the noise, then the greenish windows imploding, a shower of glass and stone before the tsunami of freezing lake water obliterated everything.

He shuddered.

“The students arrive in just over a week. And Horace and I are already using rooms regularly along the corridor.”

Fetherington started to take offence and put his hands on his hips. “Now hang on Professor, you just told me the roofs and gables were the most important thing.”

“They’re not life threatening! That’s how I prioritise things, I don’t know about you.”

“Oi, that’s not fair, who d’you think ordered this bracing?”

“Pull all your men onto this job. How long will it take to fix the mouldings and the walls?”

“I dunno – probably weeks! And I’m not keen about putting my workers in here, if I’m honest. What if it collapses while they’re in ‘ere?”

“Flitwick might be able to charm some form of reinforcement…” said Slughorn tentatively. “Just while the work is getting done.”

“You’ll have to keep the students out of here until its safe,” said Filch, rather pointing out the obvious. “Where are you going to put them?”

“I’ll worry about that later,” muttered Snape. “I agree, Horace, Flitwick can put up some form of blockading magic that will hold for now. Fetherington, commence immediately please. I’ll need to talk to McGonagall.”

The Headmistress, he learnt, was in the basement laundry and linen rooms. Adjoining these rooms was the reinforced brick boiler room which housed three gargantuan wrought-iron boilers that provided hot water for cooking, cleaning and the Hospital Wing sanitation and heating. McGonagall was standing by while a mechanic in overalls conducted a routine inspection of these mammoth vessels.

When Snape explained the predicament to newly shocked and unhappy McGonagall, she offered to try the _Barricadus_ charm herself rather than wait for Flitwick. They went together back to the dungeon, and when McGonagall sized up the situation she drew out her wand and immediately incanted the fortification charm, which was visible as a faint translucent veil across the area.

“Where are we going to put the Slytherins, Severus?” she asked, patting her hair which had frizzed slightly as a result of the superheated boiler rooms. Her eyes glanced about her, taking in the dark, sage tones, the gothic décor and serpent adornments, the waterweed floating past the windows.

“I don’t know Ma’am. Could we split them up to share with the other House dorms?”

She paused, clearly finding the prospect unpalatable, perhaps put off by the prospect of young Slytherins redecorating the castle. “Well…let’s put our thinking caps on before we resort to that. We need a large, relatively unused space that’s not too far out of the way, but safe to enter – we could join a few classrooms together, I expect - ,”

Realisation dawned on Snape’s features. “I know just the place, Headmistress. The archive.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Expecto Patronus_!”

In the Middle Courtyard, the doe leapt forth from Snape’s wand, and landed on the shady grass beneath the maple tree. He hadn’t needed his Patronus in years, not since he’d been at the infirmary, and so didn’t try his luck with a non-verbal incantation. For a while, during the war, it had felt as if he’d drawn on the doe almost daily, but then she was put away, too recognisable to wizards in Britain (thanks to Potter explaining to the press how he’d found the Sword of Gryffindor), and not recognisable at all to wizards abroad.

The sight of his Patronus made Snape’s heart suddenly clench. His thoughts turned to Lily, and for a moment he missed her violently. His friend. He’d never replaced her, never had another friend so close, for so long, and the hollow she’d left still echoed with longing when his mind drifted past it. The absence of Potter in his life had been both a blessing and curse, for he’d only latently realised that seeing her eyes so often had, in a manner, kept her close. Twenty-five years later, he struggled to remember.

The doe’s ears twitched as she stood silvery and glowing, patiently waiting, and Snape stared at it, thinking that the doe may well be his Patronus forever now and he thought, he suspected, somehow… somehow…Lily had something to do with that.

“To Neville Longbottom,” he informed the Patronus, telegram-style. “Received your resignation, but wish to discuss. May we meet? Would you Floo to Hogwarts? From Professor Snape.”

Snape was reasonably certain that Longbottom would know his doe and recognise his voice, but didn’t think being presumptuous was the correct tone, so signed off by name. And with that, he sent the doe forth, wondering if and how he might receive word on Longbottom’s response. He didn’t know what Longbottom’s corporeal Patronus was, but if he’d been an Auror surely he’d have one. Or maybe he’d just Floo in directly.

“I thought I saw your Patronus,” called a voice, just as he was turning to go inside. Looking back, he saw Diaphne coming up the courtyard steps, dressed in her nurses’ robes, her hair drawn back in a tidy knot and evidently starting a late shift. She was smiling and, seeing her pleased countenance, his heart sank. Why couldn’t she have been angry at him, indignant, scorned?

“Good morning,” he said stiffly.

“It’s afternoon now. Are you having lunch? We could eat out here – it’s a beautiful day.”

“It is beautiful, but unfortunately I am very busy and wasn’t intending to stop for lunch.”

She picked up instantly the formal tenor to his voice, his words, the rejection, and her smile faded.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m sorry? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Why are you talking like that? Did I do something wrong yesterday?” She had closed the distance between them and stood before him, looking up, a slight frown between her brows. She was holding a small carry bag, and she held this with both hands in front of her.

“Wrong? No…of course not. Yesterday was…w-wonderful.”

She didn’t reply. Her mouth set, she sized him up and down, reading his distant expression, the hands clasped behind his back, the wall of formality. Then her frown cleared and cool awareness registered in her eyes.

“I see, Professor. Well…I’m glad yesterday I was able to…help. I know you’ve always been happy to seek me out when you need _help_. Never shy to ask for my assistance.”

“Diaphne -,”

“I’m not sure I’ll always be able to help,” she said abruptly, her gaze becoming intense. “And I expect you’ll be needing some migraine potion?”

Snape saw the walls of the net closing in. A pincer-grip manoeuvre. No longer feigning innocence, which would just be further insult, he said quietly, “Uh, yes…more potion will be required.”

“Fine,” she looked into the middle distance. “Well at least I know which kind of help you value the most.”

“Diaphne -,”

“I’ll just make use of the Brewing Room shall I?” she said, meeting his eyes again. “Or would you prefer I check with you first? I know how _busy_ you are Professor.”

“Please, I know -,”

“Fortunately not so busy you can’t ask me for… _help_.” Her voice had risen to a slightly shrill pitch by now and Snape stared at the ground.

“Oh. And you left this at my place,” she said sharply, and she opened the top of the bag she was holding and pulled something out, which she handed to him and as he reached out to take it, she let fall to the ground. It was the photo of Charity and Servius.

As he stooped to retrieve it, she said, “You took off in such a damned hurry you must have missed it. Maybe you’d forgotten about it. You certainly didn’t think about showing it to me before you asked for my… _help_!”

And with that she gave him one, last, furious stare that just about stripped his skin off, before turning on her heel and stalking away. There was that temper. She looked radiant.

 

* * *

Slughorn was no cook. He’d been dining at the Three Broomsticks so often they were starting to prepare his favourite menu choice in advance, and he had his own entry in the pub’s General Ledger. So when Snape suggested he join the staff for dinner at Hogwarts, he leapt at the chance, even though the kitchen was down to five elves who cooked the same sausages they’d had for breakfast, except this time with mash potato instead of mushrooms.

There had been no reply from Longbottom, Diaphne had disappeared for the remainder of the day, and Snape had spent a dull afternoon with McGonagall working through faculty personnel files. So when Slughorn turned up for bangers and mash, along with Hagrid, Snape was prepared to order a glass of wine with his meal and settle back.

Hagrid and Slughorn together were a joy to watch.

As they descended benignly into intemperance, a gentle banter sprang up between them, the subject, on this occasion, being the likely outcome if Slytherin students were required to hostel in other House dorms. Snape had subtly fed the theme to them, like a trainer releasing a bait to coursing hounds, and sat back to watch the games ensue.

An hour and half later, quite inebriated and chuckling at his companions, Snape felt some of his cares lift away, and said to Slughorn and Hagrid: “If you want to know where the Slytherins are actually going to be sleeping, follow me. I would appreciate your ideas on how we might set up the room.”

“I say, jolly mysterious,” said Slughorn with alacrity, as they arose from their seats, watched rather disapprovingly by McGonagall, or maybe he misread her expression and it was in fact enviously, since she was tied down by Madam Pince, and Snape led them from the Great Hall and through the shadowy lengths of Ground Floor to the far east wing, and then down the sconce-lit, spiral stone stairs to the great oak door of the archive.

As Snape opened the door, Hagrid remembered the last time he had been there. “Your Miss Charity had that license forged, d’yer remember, Severus?” said Hagrid. “Papus preserve us, we got into some awful trouble from Dumbledore over that.”

Snape didn’t recall the incident at all but knew that it must be true – Hagrid would have taken a disciplining from Dumbledore very badly. Why had Charity been forging something? Rather than probe deeper and trigger a barrage of counter-questions from Hagrid and Slughorn, he nodded and said demurely, “Oh yes…indeed.”

When they entered the archive, Hagrid squeezing himself through the door, they were required to light their wands as no scones, candles or gas lamps were alight, and the fireplace was barren and cold. Irrespective of the mild day outside, all three shivered a little as they took steps into the cavernous space which, despite being located on a similar level to the dungeons, did not have the protection of earth or water to insulate it. The room was largely ignored by most people and had a still, undisturbed air about it.

Slughorn used his wand to activate the lamps and candles so they could better inspect the dimensions, and said with some forced positivity: “Oh yes, yes, I can see that this would more than suffice as a Common Room if we were to make a few adjustments; superficial of course, only needs to be temporary.”

“Think another fireplace might be a good place to start,” remarked Hagrid. “Did the boats from the lake used to come in ‘ere?”

Slughorn and Hagrid continued their appraisal, Hagrid marvelling that he could stand upright, but Snape had wandered off slightly. He was in the grip of memories over a decade old, of working in the archive on the Ministry audit, but they were scant, flimsy. He noticed a painting on the wall that was back to front and, curious, thinking perhaps it was a Headmaster portrait, went over to it and took it down. It was an ugly depiction of a witch being hanged, the poor lady in question swinging slightly from her noose. Instantly he recalled the afternoon he’d turned it around, he’d been expecting Charity, he’d been excited, full of anticipation at having time alone with her, and had made some rushed improvements to the room before she’d arrived. But any memories of her in the room with him were gone. His brain went round and round in a loop, like a data download glitch. Being in the archive was like a permanent sense of déjà vu, memories seemed to occur as he was experiencing them, or his experience had the feeling of a memory – he was unsure which.

His casual investigation took him to the west end of the room where there was a wooden panelled section of wall with cupboard doors. One door stood slightly ajar, and idly he opened it, thinking it might be storage space for a converted Common Room, and discovered the cupboards housed row upon row of black metal boxes, roughly the size of shoe boxes. They had name plates at the end facing outwards, and he moved up closer to read them. They were named for staff members, many of them long since left.

“What’ve you got there, Severus?” asked Slughorn, nonchalantly making his way over. “You really should look over some of those artefacts in that corner. Fascinating.”

“Storage boxes,” replied Snape, opening more cupboards to reveal more rows of black metal. “For staff. Hagrid, here’s one with your name on it.”

Snape took out the metal box and handed it to Hagrid, who’d ambled over to join them.

“How’d yer open it?” Hagrid asked, turning the box over and around in his hands.

“What are they for?” asked Slughorn, peering at Hagrid’s box over his reading spectacles.

Snape had returned to the cupboard, realising the boxes were arranged in alphabetical order, and tracked them through to the letter S. “Here’s yours Horace,” he said, finding the named box and he withdrew it and handed it over to a mystified Slughorn. A few boxes along and he found his own.

“There’s no keyhole, no lid. Is there anything in them?” Slughorn continued, and weighed his up and down in his hand, then examined it more closely with his wand lit.

“Mine has,” said Snape, and contents could be heard shifting about in the case when he shook it.

 _A Witch’s Bottle?_ inquired his mind immediately. _A perfect storage receptacle_.

“Mine’s empty,” said Hagrid, and so was Slughorn’s. “I never even knew about these.”

“If mine has something in it, then clearly it can be opened,” said Snape, feeling his excitement mount, thinking surely, _surely_ this is where he would store a bottle of memories. So secure, so perfectly preserved.   Then why couldn’t he remember putting them in here? Had he still been under the influence of the _Memoriam Delens_?

“So you don’t know what’s in your box?” observed Slughorn, watching as Snape wriggled his right arm to free his wand from its sleeve. “Then it wasn’t you who put something in it? Who did?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Snape. “It’s possible I don’t remember.”

“Fair enough,” said Hagrid, nodding his shaggy head. “I’m always puttin’ things away so safely I can’t remember where I put them.” Slughorn, however, looked less convinced.

With wand in hand, Snape incanted “ _Alohomora_ ” and waved it over the box. Nothing happened.

“You don’t think this is rather like a very tight security system for the Headmaster to keep things about his staff?” asked Slughorn. “Maybe only the Head knows how to open them.”

“Possible,” said a rather vexed Snape. “But I’ve just been through all the staff personnel files and there’s some highly personal stuff in those, so I don’t know why there’d be a back-up system. And if it is that, then what in Merlin’s beard is in my box?”

“What’s in my personnel file?” asked Slughorn, slightly blasé.

“An’ mine?” asked Hagrid.

Snape looked at them both disbelievingly. “Did you honestly think I would tell you?”

He waved his wand over the box again. “ _Aberto_.”

Again, nothing happened.

“Try _Appare Vestigium_ ,” said Slughorn, and used his own wand.

As they watched, a faint golden glow appeared around the box and they saw the edge of a lid appear around the top. Snape immediately tried to prise it open, but it was merely a visual, a reincarnation of what had once occurred. Tantalisingly they could see that a lid of the box manifested, and then opened, and then the trace disappeared. He still had no idea what was inside.

“So it’s definitely a spell that opens it,” said Snape.

“Ah think Sluggy’s right,” said Hagrid. “I think maybe Ms McGonagall will know how it opens. An’ your Miss Charity. What’n a bastard that she aren’t here no more.”

Snape glanced at him askance, but Hagrid was already turning away, his attention span run out. “Well then, I think this is a righteous place for the Common Room,” Hagrid said, “but I’m feelin’ all dried out. Who’s up for a wee dram?” He put his black box onto a nearby shelf.

“Thought you’d never ask,” commented Slughorn, handing his box back to Snape to put away. “Coming, Severus?”

“Ah…” Snape felt the contents in his black box shift a little, and felt a burn to get his hands on the bottle inside. “No. I’m going to try a couple more things. Enjoy your evening.”

Before long, Snape was left alone in the archive, and something about the room seemed to settle in and relax around him. It was as if his central nervous system had its own form of memory, for its associations with the great, mahogany table, the fireplace, the dusty armchairs, the ceiling to floor shelves was sanguine, affirming. He had liked being down here.

His eyes came to rest on the table and the chairs pushed up against it. Without remembering it, he knew that Charity had worked there, he could almost sense her. He scoured his memory and was rewarded with a sudden sharp pain in his temple that seared straight through and made him wince and clasp the bridge between his brows.

A migraine was on its way.

Turning back to his box, a little pressing now, he swept his wand. “ _Emancipare_ ,” he incanted, but nothing. Not that he expected it.

Suddenly, the archive door burst open again and Snape jumped, almost dropping his box. Hagrid stuck his head through.

“Hagrid!” breathed Snape, slowing his heart.

“Just thought of summat,” Hagrid said. “Wass that spell that Tom Riddle used on my box that had Aragog in it? P’raps that’s the spell you want.” Hagrid smiled broadly, then his head disappeared again and the door was once more closed.

Of course Snape hadn’t been around at the time when Tom Riddle had released Aragog from his sealed chest, but Snape knew the story well, as did anyone who spent enough time in Hagrid’s hut. The gamekeeper might well be right, perhaps that was the difference: a spell to open a sealed container as opposed to undoing a lock – after all, the box had no lock.

White lights were starting to shimmer behind Snape’s eyes, but he raised his wand once more and waved it over the box.   “ _Cistem Aperio_.” It felt correct…something clicked in his mind…but the box didn’t open.

“Damn you,” Snape hissed, “ _Cistem Aperio!_ ” And then with timing that might have been heaven sent, a knife of hot pain soared up the back of his skull and he pitched forward slightly, causing his wand to tap the box.

When he could open his eyes again, he saw the rim of the box’s lid appear, ready to be opened. An involuntary laugh escaped him, “ _Cistem Aperio_ and a tap,” he muttered to himself, and another half-formed laugh rolled out on top of his sigh of relief.

Holding his breath, he lifted the lid and looked inside. He’d had all sorts of imaginings about what the Witch’s Bottle might look like. He knew they were often engraved or marked, often made of clay, and he knew from Diaphne that his was stoppered and sealed with wax.

But nothing like that was in his lock box.

All that was in there were two dragon-hide note books. The gold inscribed dates on the front indicated they were diaries.

He stared at them for a second, recognising them, seeing the emptiness of the remainder of the box, and then a stream of vehement cursing erupted. He dropped the box to the flagstone floor with a loud clang and strode about the archive swearing his frustration, kicking chairs. Until his head contracted with pain and he paused to double-over, holding his forehead in his hands. Without warning, subterranean magic spilled over, and caused all the wooden cupboard doors to bang open and shut, open and shut.

 _“Where?! Where are you?”_ he hollered, and then “Aaargh!” as a vice squeezed his skull and he thought surely blood must be coming from his ears.

Then he stopped, heart hammering. He stood still because he couldn’t see, couldn’t see a thing. It was as if his eyes had black blinds drawn over them. Apart from some retinal sparks, he was utterly blind. The black eyes of Snape were as dark within as they were without.

He waited. He waited to see if it would pass.

He began to think, _what if I am blind now? What if I can never see again?_

And the consequences were so huge, so monumental as to be almost unfathomable. Minutes passed and his panic began to slowly mount, and he groped around behind him where he remembered the table was, and the chairs and then he almost fell over a chair he had kicked down. By feel, he righted it, then sat and tried to think, tried above all else, to see, he tried to see through the black, and the pain, the pain in his head was cataclysmic.

His wand. It was always there, in his hand. He muttered “ _Expecto Patronum_ ” and sensed that his doe had sprung forth. “Fetch Diaphne,” he said aloud, to the black. “I am in the archive. Come quickly, I need…I need help.”

A minute later, when his Patronus had already dashed away, he thought she might interpret his message wrongly. He had meant it so genuinely, her euphemism of earlier had slipped his mind. Merlin, she might not come now, she might think he was trying to insult her.

Not knowing what else to do, he lifted his wand again and pointed it generally towards himself and attempted a healing charm, a variation on the _Vulnera_ family of spells used for repairing or reversing damage to the human body. He could feel the magic enter his system and search for the injury, and when it reached his brain there was an easing, a lifting of the agony, but he still could not see.

Fear arose. He knew, if necessary, he could make his way out of the archive, and that he could be sent to St Mungos and things could be done there, but would his eyesight ever be the same? What if things had happened in his brain that were beyond repair? The fact that his _Vulnera_ charm had done nothing alarmed him greatly. What would become of his life if he were partially or totally blinded?

There were very few things those in the Wizarding world were unable to fix, and a degree of arrogance about this made them intolerant of imperfection, or gradual improvement, or broken, unresolvable problems. Muggles had learnt that sometimes, not often, but sometimes, fate was cruel and indifferent and people suffered, and that some broken things could never be fixed. And their ability to adapt had always been the secret of their success. On the whole, Muggles did not abandon their disabled or stricken. Wizards, however, were unused to being denied. Broken bones healed overnight in the Wizarding world, afflictions cured with a mere spoonful of potion. Were Snape to learn his eyesight was lost forever, he had no guarantees about care or aid. In fact, he might even be advised to turn to the Muggle fraternity to learn how to adjust. He thought of the wailing madmen in the Wicce’s infirmary, avoided and isolated. A stain on the limitations of magic, the unfixables were discarded.

Through the roaring of pain in his head, he heard the archive door open, the heavy oak scraping across the stone floor, and footsteps. “Professor?”

“Diaphne! Thank Merlin. My head - migraine…I – I can’t see.”

She was by his side in mere seconds and placed her hands on either side of his face.

“The potion – have you made more?” he demanded. “And _Oculus_ , perhaps in Pomfrey’s store?”

“Can’t you see me? Look at me!”

His eyes, which for the past quarter of an hour had scanned continuously almost of their own accord, as if the source of blackness was external and that searching would eventually detect light or an image, tried to locate where he thought her face would be.

He heard her gasp. “How long have you been like this? Why are you down here?”

“The migraine…was bad…and then my sight was lost, suddenly, completely. Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes? I am in agony, Diaphne, I must have some potion.”

There was a pause. “I haven’t made any more potion, Professor. I have been…busy.”

After a moment of stunned silence while her answer sunk in, he groaned in utter despair. He could tell by her voice that it had been a deliberate decision. “You let vengeance get in the way of your professionalism,” he muttered, clutching his head. “I asked you to make more.”

“Come. Up to the Hospital Wing. You are lucky I am here at all. If I had been at home I wouldn’t have come. Your Patronus said you needed help and I thought you were mocking me.”

She helped him to his feet and began guiding him to the door. “While you are recuperating in the ward, I will Disapparate to the infirmary. I can consult the Wicce about your sight and bring back some potion. Professor, you must find those memories.”

 

* * *

The following morning found Snape resting peacefully in one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. Diaphne had found some Oculus potion – rather dated – in Madam Pomfrey’s Hospital store which she administered immediately, and then putting Snape to bed, had Disapparated to the Infirmary from where she brought back emergency supplies of the pain inhibitor potion, but Snape had endured the migraine from hell for two and a half hours, certain his brain case was swelling and that death was imminent. When she came to his bedside with a bottle, he had felt it in her hands and snatched it from her, pulling free the cork stopper and downing the entire contents in three gulps. As the pain receded over the next hour, so did his sight begin to restore, and by three in the morning, he could read short passages from a book before succumbing to intense fatigue.

Diaphne was not rostered to work on Sunday, but she was at his bedside by eight in the morning, knowing the Hospital Wing was closed and Snape would be alone. She checked all his vital signs, made him perform an eyesight test, examined his eyes with the strange optical tool that the Wicce had used, gave him a hearty dose of Restoration Remedy and brought him tea and toast in bed. She did all this with a rather unique combination of loving aloofness, like a mother with a naughty child, whose devotion overrides all transgressions, but who, at the same time, can’t quite forgive.

When Snape was well enough, and settled enough, to rise, she helped him put on his boots, then his coat, and did up all the buttons and then dusted off imaginary marks, before lifting her gaze to his.

“Your eyes seem almost back to normal,” she said quietly.

“They feel, they feel better for looking at you.”

Uncertainty flitted across her features. “Professor? You confuse me. Perhaps you’re right that we are best as…we should just be colleagues.”

“That would be simpler. But you…you do so much…”

She reached up and kissed him once, softly. She confused him, too. He wanted to return it, but she pulled away. And then, as she turned to attend to her trolley of nurses things, she heard his boots on the stone floor, striding away, the door to the Wing open and shut behind him.

 

* * *

Slightly unsteadily, he was crossing the Entrance Hall intending for his quarters, noticing how quiet and deserted the castle felt and glad of it, when a huge Patronus came hurtling through the Renaissance windows and thundered up to the space before him. Snape had stopped abruptly, for the Patronus was life-sized and was significantly bigger than him, and even though comprised of harmless silvery magic, the beast before him looked anything but innocuous. It was a splay-horned, broad-shouldered ox, and it lowered its powerful head menacingly at Snape as the message was delivered.

_I am here. I am at the Gates. Meet me._

Longbottom. Snape had presumed that the corporeal Patronus of the uncoordinated, incompetent lad would be something like a duck or a donkey, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised what McGonagall had been trying to warn him. Bulls were determined, stubborn, loyal, staunch and prepared to fight. Being hapless was merely a condition of the time in Longbottom’s life, not his personality or character. The ox represented the person he’d grown into, the person Snape had started to witness towards the end.

So he was at the Gates. They were no longer locked, why didn’t Longbottom make his way up to the Entrance? But Snape exhaled deeply as the ox drifted away, and prepared himself to go down the hill. He owed it to McGonagall to salvage what was possible.

The morning was warming up as he stepped outside, feeling terrible. His body was debilitated after the migraine, and his nerves had taken a thrashing over the temporary blindness. More than ever he realised that he was on a path to some kind of permanent, life-compromising damage if he didn’t find the Witch’s Bottle, and it had become a race now. He kept his eyes to the ground as he walked, not just for steadiness, but also to avoid the bright sunlight that kept glaring out from behind drifting clouds. They felt sensitive and sore.

The Forbidden Forest seemed eerily quiet, he observed, glancing at it as he walked. It seemed as if all the birds had disappeared. As he got nearer the Gates, he saw they were standing open, and standing squarely between them was Longbottom. Dressed in black jeans and an oilskin windcheater, his legs were shoulder-width apart and his hands hung by his side, wand in hand, but he had a poised look about him, an attitude of resolve, and he stared hard and unsmilingly at Snape as the latter approached.

Longbottom had grown to a good six-feet since reaching adulthood, and along with his height, he had become lean and strongly set, like his ox. He and his eleven-year-old counterpart could not have been more obverse.

“Snape!” he called. The choice of name was deliberate, and Snape halted in his tracks. No greeting, no attempt at politics. Snape slipped his wand out of his sleeve and into his hand on instinct.

“Professor,” replied Snape, his voice discordant in the silence of the hillside. “I received your Patronus, obviously. Why do you not come up to the Castle?”

Longbottom raised his wand, pointed it at Snape and shouted “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

The aim of the wand had been directly at Snape’s chest and a huge jolt of energy across a short distance sent him up off his feet and crashing down metres away, his wand snatched from his hand and flying to the ground between them. Longbottom stepped forward and picked up the wand, shoving it in his jacket pocket.

“You should have been stripped of this years ago, Snape!” shouted Longbottom. “You’re not fit to have a wand.”

Shocked, his breath knocked out of him, Snape struggled upright. “What the -?”

“ _Everte Statum!_ ”

Snape was lifted and thrown backwards again, hitting the stony ground hard.

It took a moment; he was stunned, but Snape again attempted to rise. “ _Immobulus!_ ” shouted Longbottom, and once more green light shot from his wand and hit Snape, this time rendering him motionless on the ground.

Longbottom wandered up, almost casually, and stood over him with his wand at the ready. His face was dark, furious and his eyes blazed. “I ought to C _ruciatus_ you, Snape.”

“That’s an Unforgivable, Longbottom,” Snape muttered through clenched teeth.

“Exactly. I think you’re pretty deserving. What you did was unforgivable.”

Snape swallowed. He thought of several replies, but all of them would have inflamed the situation. He elected to stay quiet and see what would happen.

“ _Levicorpus!_ ” announced Longbottom suddenly, stepping back with a flick of his wand, and Snape was hoisted into the air by his ankles.

“This is for Harry, you bastard!” shouted Longbottom. “Yes, I dare use your own spells against you! You’re lucky I don’t use _Sectumsempra_.”

Blood rushed to Snape’s head, putting intense pressure on his tender orbital cavities and almost blacking him out. It was only a coincidence, but Longbottom couldn’t have picked a more effective jinx if he’d tried. Snape gasped and said, “I will duel with you, Longbottom, if you want. But this is unbecoming of you as an Auror. I am unarmed.” He was starting to appreciate what Voldemort had seen in him.

“Like we were unarmed!” hollered Longbottom into his face. “We were kids! You were supposed to be working for The Order! Protecting us, remember?”

Snape’s eyes began to flash red and black. He lifted his hands to his face and pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes, moaning.

“ _Liberacorpus!_ ” spat Longbottom, and Snape crashed to the ground again, landing heavily on his left shoulder. Pain erupted along his scapula.

Astonishingly, Longbottom then kicked him, a heavy booted kick to the centre of his back. “That’s for Dumbledore!”

“Stop!” shouted Snape, although finding breath to do so wasn’t easy. “You’ve made your point.”

“ _Have I?_ ” screamed Longbottom, mere inches from Snape’s cowed head. “But I couldn’t say that to you, could I, in all those potion classes? When I was _eleven!”_ Another kick, this time in the kidneys. “If I’d said that to you, I would have had a month of detentions, wouldn’t I? Except that would have been too boring. Much more fun to humiliate me in front of the whole class!?”

Longbottom pointed his wand again. “ _Conbure!_ ” he incanted, and Snape’s skin began to burn, all over, hotter and hotter.

“You should burn in hell, Snape. You were supposed to be dead. _Why did you come back here?_ _Why?_ ”

The burning was worse than all the other spells and punishments put together. Snape began to sweat profusely and started to grapple with his coat buttons. He’d stopped listening to Longbottom now, he was fighting for his life. So soon after the migraine, his body was already weakened and didn’t have the defences it needed.

Longbottom stood over Snape, the adrenalin causing him to breath heavily, a wild expression on his face. He saw his loathed Potions Master writhing in pain, the agonised gasps were chilling to hear in the silent, morning air, as he scrabbled to undo the buttons on his coat.

And then there was a thunderous shouting: “Oi! Wha’ is goin’ on?” and Hagrid came down the path like a man-mountain, all but throwing boulders out of his way. Longbottom stood straight and calmly awaited him.

“Sev’rus?” said Hagrid, stopping, brows furrowing. “Whass the ma’er with him?” Hagrid demanded, looking at Longbottom. “Neville – have yer hexed him?”

“ _Finite Incantatum_ ,” said Longbottom coolly, pointing his wand at Snape. When Snape lay panting and otherwise still, Longbottom threw his wand at him. It clattered on the pebbly ground beside him.

“What’ve yer done?” said Hagrid, stepping to Snape’s side and kneeling down. “Why Neville?”

“He’s a traitor,” answered Longbottom with a cold factualness that Tom Riddle would aspire to. “And a bully. I’ve waited decades to do that. You can tell the Headmistress I’ll be here on Monday.”

And with that, Longbottom dusted off his coat, pocketed his wand and strode back down the path, out of the gates.

 


	11. The Teachers Arrive

 

Hagrid had wanted to tell McGonagall about Snape’s thrashing from Longbottom, but when Snape threatened to _obliviate_ him, he’d backed off, not keen to have any magic interfere with his mind. “’Aven’t got enough brain power as ‘tis, Sev’rus, don’ want to be messin’ with it any other ways,” Hagrid had said, hands raised to Snape’s pointed wand, which trembled slightly.

“Nobody breathes a word about this, understood?” muttered Snape, making a tedious and aching ascent up the hill towards the castle. “What Longbottom does is his business, but McGonagall will not hear about this from me, or from you.”

“Why are ye lettin’ ‘im get away with it?” Hagrid asked, confused. Snape declined to be carried, so Hagrid was having to walk with awkward, deliberate slowness.

Snape heaved a sigh before answering. “It was man to man. He was setting things to rights. It was between him and me, nothing to do with school business.”

“But you’re no traitor, Sev’rus!” exclaimed Hagrid, and Snape noted wryly that he didn’t dispute the accusation of being a bully.

“His points of view are subjective, Hagrid, and his opinion. He’s entitled to them.”

“No’ so that he can go beatin’ yer up and hexin’ yer!”

Snape’s head was beginning to swim and it felt like a nosebleed might be imminent. He shook his head at Hagrid wearily. “Let’s leave it be. I don’t intend to pursue it.” Then he left Hagrid at his hut and picked his way back up the hill to the front door of Hogwarts. It wasn’t until he was about to enter that he realised he’d been silently shadowed by Fisk.

He spent the remainder of the day in his quarters, in a muscle-relaxant bath infused with a hematoma tincture, then took more Restoration Remedy, then an _Episkey_ spell for his nosebleed, then simply lay on his bed attempting to get comfortable and rest, but the nagging pain in his shoulder and back made it almost impossible.

Feeling uncharacteristically sorry for himself, he made his way to his office where he kept his own stores of potions to see if there was anything that might help, and while he found a myriad of largely pointless cures for rare or ridiculous ailments, there was nothing practical for his current condition or, more pointedly, bruised ego.

Later, self-imprisoned in his quarters, McGonagall hailed him over the Floo, wanting to know if he was coming to dinner because she wanted to ask him about Neville Longbottom. “Not tonight,” he replied dispiritedly over the rumbling of his empty stomach. “Bit tired. But I have spoken to Longbottom and he assures me he will be here tomorrow as originally planned.”

“Oh! Oh I see. Well done, Severus, that’s encouraging.” A pause, in which her bafflement was obvious. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“Thank you but I…I must decline.”

And feeling as dejected as just about any time he could remember, he poured himself a large whisky, combined it with a slightly-more-than-recommended dose of _Dreamless Sleep_ , and fell sound asleep in his armchair to a dull book, cold fireplace and a single, flickering candle.

 

* * *

It was Monday the fourteenth, and the teachers were arriving. The day dawned with a glorious sunrise, heraldic, as if acknowledging the significance of this event. Most of the teachers were Apparating from their various abodes and dwellings across the country, some were coming by Floo, and Hooch was, naturally, flying in on her latest edition broomstick.

They were due to arrive around 8am as the entire faculty and support staff were then to convene in the Great Hall for a morning tea staff meeting at 10:30am.

McGonagall had donned one of her favourite and most impressive outfits for the occasion, exchanging her hard-wearing and comfortable velvet green outer-robe for a pearl and black patterned damask number which contrasted imperially against her high-necked black top beneath and finished it with a pearl brooch. Of course, she wore her pointed hat and heeled boots as befitted a witch of her position. She stationed herself at the door of the Entrance Hall to greet people as they arrived. With her, at her side, was Snape. McGonagall said to him: “I will introduce you to those you haven’t met, and for all the others wanting to know where you’ve been the last eight years, I suggest you have a patter.”

And so, hiding the pain in his shoulder and back, Snape stood to McGonagall’s right in the welcome party, with Hagrid next to him, as the teachers one by one arrived in the courtyard, variously lugging their cases, bags and trunks.

One of the first to arrive was the new DADA teacher, Professor Benedict Hellmann. He was accompanied by his wife, Marlene and two daughters: eleven year old daughter, Amelie and seven year old Meredith. They had Portkeyed over from Germany two weeks earlier (travel between nations being delightfully informal and uncomplicated in the Wizarding world) and had spent the fortnight having A Great British Holiday, before finding accommodation in Hogsmeade and making themselves at home, ironically just down the street from Slughorn.

Hellmann had been to Hogwarts several times earlier as part of the recruitment process, but it was the first introduction for his wife and daughter. Compared to their beloved Durmstrang castle, which was built in the medieval Bavarian Alps style, in perfect condition, striking and romantic in appearance, Hogwarts presented very much as the plain cousin. While Hellmann earnestly greeted McGonagall with a bow at the waist, Snape noticed his wife and daughters glancing about them with expressions so carefully neutral as to border on disdainful.

McGonagall turned to Snape and Hagrid and introduced the new Master of DADA. Hellman was tall, extremely upright, with pale, carefully combed back hair trimmed to within an inch of its life, clean shaven and he wore spectacles with gold wired frames. Snape put him in his late thirties. He was dressed in the typical professorly attire of wool suit and tie in muted colours with his academic robe atop.

Snape shook his hand and winced a little at the fierce grip he received in return. A solitary pronounced jerk of the arm and Hellman fixed Snape with a critical stare. “Ah, Professor Snape, at last – I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance. At Durmstrang we followed with interest your activities in the war. My networks also mentioned encounters with you under your pseudonym during your time in Europe. I believe we may know people in common.” His English was immaculate and swift, but there was no mistaking the clipped Teutonic accent, the occasional consonant replacement. Snape elected not to comment on the apparent withheld intelligence by Durmstrang of his whereabouts post war. With German ingenuity, they obviously decided that particular information might have been useful to them.

“Indeed. We must make a time to chat further.”

Snape then met his wife who was so formal and cool she made Narcissa look like the comedic lead in a Christmas panto. Lastly the daughter Amelie, who would be starting school at Hogwarts alongside Servius in first year. She took after her father for colouring and her mother in attitude. There was a clear, clinical intelligence in the pale blue eyes.

House elves then quickly attended to their bags and coats and took them through to the Great Hall.

Flitwick and Vector arrived next, looking similar to when Snape had last seen them, and welcomed him warmly.   Snape gave them his patter when they enquired about his past, and they moved through to the Hall without fuss, knowing this procedure well.

Hooch arrived by broom, and then Aurora Sinistra via Floo. When Sinistra came over to greet him, she looked at him oddly and searched his face with a frown on her own. He thought it was because of his missing years, which she did remark on lightly, but no – there was something else – something that made concern and doubt and relief blend uncomfortably in her features. “Is everything alright, Professor?” he asked her when she lingered.

“Are you well, Severus?” she questioned, her look penetrating.

“You mean the snakebite -?”

“No, no - I mean…you were not well by the end of the..the you know. You had headaches. Do you still have headaches?”

It was his turn to frown, wondering what she knew. He didn’t speak, but her smoothing brow and slight nod showed she’d registered his response in the affirmative. “Perhaps we could catch up?” she said cryptically, then headed off to the Hall.

Neville Longbottom came into view at the front door, silhouetted against the sunlight, and Snape immediately tensed, setting his expression and clasping his hands behind his back. But Longbottom was well in control. He bent to give McGonagall a light hug and a friendly peck on the cheek, handed his coat and bags with thanks to the elves who behaved like star-struck fans, and then said, “Thank you for your owl, Minerva, and I’m sorry if I behaved impulsively with my resignation. I’m glad to be here.”

 _Minerva!_ Cheeky upstart, she’d been his Head of House and then his Headmistress! Snape was damned if he was going to be addressed by his first name. And what owl? Had she corresponded with him?

“Severus told me you met and sorted everything out,” said McGonagall, beaming.

For the first time, Longbottom looked at Snape, and coolly holding his gaze, replied, “I think we have an understanding.”

Hagrid coughed and spluttered loudly and Snape studiously ignored him.

“Something wrong with your shoulder…Professor?” asked Longbottom, not looking in the least concerned. “Not serious I hope.”

“No,” said Snape bluntly, and straightened up from the slight bend he’d assumed to take strain off his bruise. McGonagall watched the exchange, and, conscious of her waiting for evidence of a truce, Snape forced the corners of his mouth into a smile that better resembled a grimace. “Nothing that can’t be…corrected…in time.”

Longbottom had his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked with confidence on his heels. His grin was self-assured, every bit of him a Gryffindor. “Well. The dungeon hasn’t been the same without a bat. I think this will be an interesting year.”

“Neville!” admonished McGonagall with an affectionate tap of her wand. “Don’t be calling him a bat, you’re not a student now. Off with you, into the Hall with the others.”

Snape glowered at him and refrained from watching as Longbottom, still smiling, ambled off to the Hall. He was smarting not only about the insult, but the Headmistress’s rather indulgent and ineffectual scolding, thereby subtly communicating to Snape where the real power actually lay.

Agatha Froggonmore, the Transfiguration Master, followed Slughorn, who had gone immediately through to the Hall with a cheery wave. Froggonmore was tall and would have been stately if she didn’t have such an obvious stoop. She had slightly frizzy red hair cut into a short 1920’s bob that only seemed to emphasise her lined, horse-like face. Snape didn’t think she looked in the slightest amphibian. She had bright, shrewd eyes that assessed Snape from head to toe when McGonagall introduced her.

“Yes. Professor. I’ve heard about you,” her voice was startlingly deep for a woman, and her hand was enormous when he shook it. She didn’t smile, but she wasn’t unfriendly, just unusually focused.

“Agatha is studying in her spare time. She’s aspiring to Warlock, isn’t that right?” McGonagall informed him.

Froggonmore nodded. “I studied potions under Horace. I excelled.”

“Ah. Very good,” replied Snape, unsure what to do with this pronouncement.

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that -,”

“Where were you after the war?”

“Um, travelling. Travelling. The continent.”

“What are you going to do about this castle?”

“Sorry?”

“All this confounding building? Bloody nuisance.”

McGonagall leaned towards them. “We’ll be talking about that in the staff meeting, Agatha. Everyone has gone through to the Hall.”

An elf attempted to take Froggonmore’s battered leather bag but she wrenched it back. “I’m the only one that touches this bag!” she barked, the elf jumping back in surprise. Then she loped off to the Hall.

“She’s a little odd. But brilliant, simply brilliant,” murmured McGonagall.

Sybil Trelawney, Bathsheda Babbling and Poppy Pomfrey arrived as a huddle and were soon on through to join the others. Then Diaphne came hurrying up the stairs.

“Morning Professor McGonagall,” she said with a smile. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for offering me a place on the roll.”

McGonagall took a second too long to answer and Snape realised she’d not yet quite committed Diaphne’s name to memory. He stepped forward. “I enrolled Diaphne last week, Ma’am. Seventh year.”

“My pleasure, Diaphne,” said McGonagall quickly. “Madam Pomfrey was very complimentary about your abilities. I’m sure it would be nice to have them officially recognized.”

“Yes Ma’am, thank you Ma’am.” said Diaphne. With a perfunctory smile at Snape, she slipped through towards the Hall, not looking back.

“Minerva!” came a jovial voice from the door, and another stranger stood there. A round-faced, rather flushed plump woman with short brown hair, ill-fitting jeans and a great woolen jumper, walked up and slung a backpack off her shoulders with such a flourish that McGonagall was forced to step back. “How was your vacation?” the woman asked, and Snape detected an Afrikaans accent. “I went home, saw the family, fantastic!”

“Oh…I wish I could say the same but this old castle needs looking after. Welcome back to a new school year, all the same! Hentie, this is Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master and the new Deputy. Severus, please meet Hentie Oosthuizen, she’s our Muggle Studies teacher.”

Beaming emphatically, Oosthuizen grabbed Snape’s hand and pumped it. “Hey it’s awesome to meet you Professor Snape.” He flinched as his shoulder was wrenched slightly. “Man, sorry if I hurt you, I’m used to my brothers – they’re all bigger than me.” Then she moved on directly and launched into a massive hug with Hagrid. “Hey I missed you bad, eh, you old bear! I brought some things back for you from Africa! I tell you, we are going to thrash you in the rugby this year!”

Snape watched somewhat speechlessly as Oosthuizen and Hagrid fell into a hearty, happy confab and turned back to McGonagall. “That was unexpected,” he murmured. “What’s she like as a teacher?”

McGonagall raised a lenient brow. “We deliberately tried to get someone very different to Alecto Carrow. Happily, her personality complements Charity’s textbook very well. You’ve probably spotted she’s extraordinarily comfortable in Muggledom. She’s been trying to teach Hagrid the rules of rugby. I must admit, he’d make short work of an opposing team.”

“Then that’s everyone, isn’t it?” said Snape, having been ticking off the faculty on a mental checklist and feeling ready to go back to bed. And just then a broom came to land in the courtyard, which wasn’t strictly allowed but the skill of the rider on this occasion meant the landing was perfectly controlled. A woman dismounted.

This woman now walking towards them was again a stranger. She was tall, slender and thirty-something with the indefinable, seductive allure of a Veela. She wore jodhpurs faultlessly, with a blouse with a deep v-neck and knee-high boots, and carried her broom in a way that turned it improbably into an object of intense sex appeal. Somehow she managed to remove a rucksack from her shoulders, hold the broom and walk up steps with complete aplomb. Snape stared.

“Headmistress,” she said in honeyed tones, extending a gracious hand to McGonagall as she came through the door. “Lovely to be back.”

“Welcome, Concetta, how nice to see you again. Did you have a good break?”

“Lovely, thank you. Rolanda and I explored Snowdonia and the Beacons by broom. It’s beautiful there.”

“Sounds delightful. Concetta, this is Professor Severus Snape, no doubt Rolanda has mentioned him. Severus, please meet Concetta Cropper, School Counsellor.”

Snape was flustered. He in turn shook Cropper’s hand and tried not to look directly at her but it was impossible. He couldn’t tell if it were pheromones, her intense physical presence or the fact that she was a Counsellor that was unbalancing him, but not to look at her might give her reasons to try and analyse him, a prospect Snape found simultaneously terrifying and incredibly tempting.

“Yes. Rolanda told me about you when we got Minerva’s letter. It all sounds like an amazing story, perhaps you can tell me all about it one day. It must have been very hard for you.”

He nodded uncomfortably and offered a small, tight-lipped smile.

“It was lovely to meet you Professor. Do you mind if I call you Severus? I don’t like to be too formal with my associates.”

Snape merely looked at her, which she took as acceptance, then with a serene smile she handed her bag and broomstick to a house elf and sashayed her way to the Hall.

McGonagall, looking at Snape, who was looking back at the departing Cropper, gave a small laugh. “Yes. She does that.”

“Is she a Veela?”

“No, actually. Terribly unfair.”

Hagrid came over, shaking his great, shaggy head. “I lose me tongue every time.”

“Rolanda?” queried Snape and McGonagall nodded her head sagely.

“Confirmed. At least three years.”

“Hogwarts has a School Counsellor now?”

“Yes,” replied McGonagall, looking worn out herself from the marathon of meeting, greeting and introductions. She closed the great front door. “When the school reopened after the war, we hired her on a temporary basis. The students and the staff were still deeply affected - grieving, displaced, anxious and afraid. Even if there is a winner and a loser in the war, people don’t just shake hands afterwards like a game of Quidditch. The Slytherins had terrible trouble reintegrating into the school community. Concetta worked almost exclusively with them alone for several months. And we extended and extended her contract and eventually I decided to offer the role to her permanently. Wizarding counsellors are like hens teeth, we’re very lucky to have her.”

Slowly they crossed the floor of the Entrance Hall towards the Great Hall from where an animated buzz of chatty teachers could be heard.

“Does she have enough to keep busy?” asked Snape, wondering what a counsellor in a school did all day if they weren’t teaching.

“She does career guidance as well. Works with special needs students. Does a very good job with First Years’ orientation. Really, she’s taken a load off the House Heads.”

They entered the Hall. The four House tables had been shortened and rearranged into a square and the teachers were all seated, helping themselves to mounds of morning tea and beverages.   When McGonagall entered, the faculty applauded, a sure sign that her leadership was extremely well received. She went to the empty seats on one side of the square and Snape sat at the empty seat beside her, thankful for this trifling indicator of his status and hoping that it wasn’t lost on Longbottom.

 

* * *

She opened the meeting with announcements, including Slughorn’s retirement, Hellmann’s appointment and Snape’s new position. After the requisite rounds of applause and congratulations, general business then ensued.

The condition of the castle was discussed, and the work on the Slytherin Common Room. The Kitchen Elves negotiation was explained. A warning that Drop Bears had escaped into the Forbidden Forest now only reinforced the strictly-out-of-bounds ruling. The Quidditch pitch was to be resurfaced, and the manufacturer’s recall of last year’s brooms meant that the teams and practice scheduled would be postponed until October. The rubble-pile needed better isolation measures. A large number of unidentified mer-type species had been found floating dead on the lake surface but causes hadn’t been identified – strictly no swimming for the time being. The Board of Governors Annual Meeting would be to announce the posts after the last elections – McGonagall would be going to London to attend that.

“Right,” said McGonagall a little later after everyone had enjoyed a breather and cup of tea. “I want to move to the next agenda item which is to reconfirm everyone’s extracurricular roles. As I mentioned towards the end of last year, I had quite a few disappointed students coming to see me concerned that their particular club seemed to have dwindled away, and I want to ensure that doesn’t happen again. I’ve got my Clubs and Committees Register here, so I’ll work through the list.

“Sybil. Will you still be running the Harmony Club? Just nod if yes and I’ll tick it off. Good. Bathsheba – Gobstones?”

“No, Minerva, I don’t think so. It wasn’t popular. Have you any clubs without a teacher?”

“The Chess Club? Binns’ attendance was sporadic and the members were quite committed.”

Babbling looked unconvinced.

“Horace, will you still be running the Slug Club now you’re Emeritus?”

“Yes, yes of course.”

“Argus, Castle Care seemed to dwindle away – I think only meeting every six months rather detracts from the motivation of the members.”

“I only had two members!”

“There’s plenty of gargoyle transfiguration they could be practicing,” said McGonagall sternly, peering at him over her glasses. “Well let me know. Right, Hentie, Magical Arts seemed to be going strong. Continuing?”

“Oh definitely Ma’am.”

“Neville, the Gardening Club had thirty members by the end of the year! What on earth were you growing? Carry on. Now Vector, the Otherworlds Club – I don’t recommend using Vanishing Cabinets anymore, and the Centaurs have asked me specifically not to be asked for appearances again, otherwise it was going very well. Carry on. Book Club still going Irma? Good, good, and Filius, Choir and Music I trust? Excellent. Who am I missing?”

“Stargazers had twenty-two members by July,” said Sinistra. “I’m carrying on.”

Hagrid said, “Friends and Familiars is still going, but I’m not accepting tarantulas.”

“I’ll take the Chess Club,” said Froggonmore, “If someone will take up Drama and Performing Arts? It’s not my thing.”

McGonagall looked around the table but nobody raised their hands. “I see. Maybe I can take that one. Otherwise it is up for adoption. Last one is the Dueling Club.”

Snape was suddenly alert and about to offer his services when Hellmann raised his hand. “Yes. I am interested in that. I can run a Dueling Club.”

Snape glared at him without speaking. McGonagall said, “Thank you Professor Hellmann, come and see me in a few days and I’ll explain the rules for extra-curricular. And Severus, as Deputy you take on the Student Consultation Committee.”

“The what?”

“The SCC. Once a month. Prefects and Student Heads. Just make sure they don’t start asking for anything outlandish. Plus, I want a regular meeting with the builders and the MOM on progress of this rebuild. Please set that up.”

Snape sat back, scowling, then remembered where he was, and that a Counsellor might be analyzing his expression, so evened out his features. Since when were students consulted? In the space of eight years, Hogwarts had become confrontingly modern and administrative. Was a time when Basilisks roamed the halls; Ogres would shamble in and ruin bathroom fixtures. Those were the days. And he should have been running the Dueling Club – clearly this Hellmann had points to prove. Then he smirked to himself at the idea of a Gardening Club and felt a little consoled.

“Now,” said McGonagall, casting an important look to each around the table. “To the first day of term. As I wrote to you, the Express will deliver the students on Sunday 3rd September, and classes start the next day. We have but two weeks to get classrooms, lesson plans and supplies in order. The Slytherin Common room will need to be set up. We’ll run the Sorting Hat ceremony as usual - ,”

“Ah,” interrupted Hellmann, coughing to get attention. “This might be a good time to tell you that my daughter Amelie does not want to be, as you say, Sorted. We do not have this practice at Durmstrang. Perhaps we should make the Sorting Hat ceremony optional?”

“I beg your pardon?” said McGonagall, eyebrows so high they almost knocked her hat off, then seemed to remember that she was talking to a brand new member of staff and said, “I’m terribly sorry, Professor, but the Sorting Ceremony is a centuries old tradition.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Well then if it can’t be optional, I’m sure there must be exceptions. Students who didn’t fit one of the four Houses?”

There was a reflective lull. None of the teachers could think of a single student that didn’t end up being placed in a House. However they all knew of students who’d complained of finding the selection uncomfortable, and plenty of occasions when a student had been moved from one House to another.

Cropper spoke up in her smooth voice. “Minerva, it might be time for Hogwarts to challenge whether such narrow definitions are really appropriate for individuals at such formative and impressionable times in their lives. We might inadvertently be pressuring people into a confined set of behaviours and expectations when they should be allowed to explore all the different aspects of their personalities. I think we should be asking ourselves if perhaps the Sorting Hat isn’t better relegated to a place of historical significance and exploring new, brave ways of helping students navigate a world away from home.”

Silence.

“Eh?” said Hagrid.

Snape had been listening to the Counsellor when she first started speaking, but then he got distracted looking at her. Then he closed in again towards the end when he thought she’d said the Sorting Hat should remain on its shelf in the Headmaster’s Office. While he’d had a fair number of newborn Slytherins balk at the decision when their House had been announced during the ceremony, he couldn’t think of a single one who’d walked out the front door of Hogwarts at the end of their seventh year and regretted their allegiance, who’d questioned their allocation or who’d wished they’d been nominated for any other House. In fact, the opposite. Slytherins – of all the Houses, even Gryffindor – became almost feverish in their fidelity, their pride. It was partly cultivated by the ‘Slytherins vs The World’ standpoint they’d arrived at. The Slytherin school-tie network worked for its members long after they’d hung up their Quidditch uniforms.

“Well that’s a fascinating proposal,” said McGonagall stoically, seeming to find eye-contact with Cropper somewhat difficult. “Why don’t we explore that idea…another day? Perhaps one for the SCC, Severus? How do the children feel about being in a House?”

Snape raised non-committal brows and nodded. He was certain the matter would never be raised again after this meeting, young Amelie notwithstanding. If he’d learned anything at all from being mired amongst adolescents for decades, it was that they couldn’t bear being separated from the group, and Amelie would be hammering down the door of one or another House Common Room by night two.

Interestingly, the one teacher who fostered House devotion more than just about anyone else was Rolanda Hooch, the competitive spirit she relied on for the Quidditch Pitch bordered on hysterical. But she sat next to Cropper and stared heatedly at the table in front of her, the tips of her ears a flaming red, her jaw set. Cropper seemed utterly oblivious.

“But until such time as the Sorting Hat sings his song for the last time, I still require four Heads of Houses,” continued McGonagall. “And I’m sad to say that I’m giving up my post with Gryffindor after thirty-six years. Och, I’ve been bleeding, sweating and crying scarlet and gold for all that time, and I will die with the flag in my coffin, for sure. But I’m handing the scarf over to Neville, because he has more lion in his heart than Godric himself. Make Gryffindor proud, Neville.”

There was another round of applause as Neville Longbottom rose from his seat and came round to give McGonagall a handshake and genteel kiss on either cheek, and accept from her a Gryffindor scarf that was woven with gold thread. He wrapped it around his neck and then raised another round of applause from the group for McGonagall herself, who blushed effusively.

Snape watched all this with concealed cynicism. While he hadn’t always loved being in the classroom in the past, he had been unremittingly passionate about his House and couldn’t believe he wouldn’t be gathering his serpents around him on his return. During his year as Headmaster, Slughorn had approached him several times with concerns about the toxicity coursing through Slytherin blood, the island-like separation of the House, the fear he held for the students who boasted of their supremacist views. Snape had listened and recognized the signs of Slytherin traits being warped and perverted by a self-imposed echo-chamber of evangelism and propaganda. They didn’t have the maturity to know it for what it was, but they had the instincts of survivalists, a drive to dominate, and so embraced fully this apparent window in time to seek glory in the form they understood. Slytherins needed less justification for what they wanted, their character was driven to it, they would never remain down, they couldn’t even if they wanted to. In their very DNA was the predisposition to rise to the surface. But they needed strong leadership to corral it, and when Snape learned of the canker eating at the core of his serpents, a cold heaviness rested on his heart. He had longed to swap places with Slughorn.

Snape had seen the way Longbottom had marshaled his schoolmates behind that aggravating Dumbledore’s Army, and he didn’t doubt that he had the wherewithal to make an excellent Gryffindor Head of House, in fact he supposed Longbottom would relish opportunities to prove his mettle in any way he could. Perhaps it was just as well Slughorn would continue at the helm.

McGonagall had finished her meeting. It was almost lunchtime and some irascible kitchen elves were ready to start magicking food up to the Great Hall, so there was a hubbub of activity as the meeting was drawn to a close and the staff cleared the tables to make room for the food. Hellmann made a big performance of drawing forth his wand and restoring the House tables to their original positions, and Snape noticed that his wand was black, like his own, probably also ebony. This irked him considerably.

As things were being organized and the teachers moved haphazardly like colliding molecules, Snape found that his path was intercepted by Diaphne. She glanced up at him in this accident of meetings, and offered an entirely genuine, entirely natural smile, the kind that reached her eyes with a touch of humour, the kind she used to give him when she’d tricked him or teased him, that signaled today she felt loving.   And she moved on, giving the same smile to Longbottom behind him, who returned it. The whole incident had been mere moments in the execution, but in it, as if slowed to half-time, Snape watched her smile at Longbottom, and watched him lock eyes with her and give his own smile in return, ostensibly equally genuine and guileless, and Snape could almost see a connection being formed. Men understand the motives of other men, and what he saw from Longbottom was more than simple politeness: Longbottom’s brain had processed in a fifth of a second that a pretty woman was noticing him, which he seized, acknowledged and returned with his own message of interest and availability should she be so inclined.

There hadn’t been time for Diaphne to communicate a response, but there had been for Snape. After she’d moved on, and motivated by property rights he didn’t actually own, he stopped in his tracks and glared at Longbottom. “She’s a student,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Diaphne. She’s a student. Seventh year.”

Longbottom’s face had dropped all pretense of friendliness and approachability and assumed a cold, distant regard privately reserved for Snape. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or why.” And then he walked away.

“Severus?” He turned; was McGonagall, and she lightly touched his arm to usher him aside.

“I wasn’t sure whether to mention Servius to all the staff, so I erred on the side of caution,” she said in low tones. “Under the circumstances, it just didn’t seem the sort of thing to announce without being prepared to answer a million questions. How would you like me to handle it?”

“I can handle it myself, Ma’am, thank you. I’ll tell people when the time is appropriate.”

“Very good. And I’ll talk separately to the respective teachers about Diaphne doing her NEWTs. Otherwise, have I covered everything do you think?”

“I sincerely hope you don’t have any more surprises.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just starting to realise how much has changed in eight years. And I had no idea you were giving up the Head of House.”

She smiled ruefully. “Sorry Severus. There were quite a few things I wanted to talk with you about at dinner last night. Still, you’re in the picture now.”

“Who is Heading up Hufflepuff since Pomona left? Is it Professor Froggonmore?”

“Oh no. She’s solid blue Ravenclaw. It’s Hentie actually, she asked me for role specifically even though she wasn’t schooled here. She told me that in South Africa, badgers are renowned for being virtually invincible: that they steal food off lions, can survive snake venom and exploit birds for their own ends. Sometimes in the same day! She is busily re-branding that House and they’ve come out boxing under her leadership. This faculty is full of surprises, Severus. You’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

After a long and rowdy lunch, the teachers all dispersed to their various rooms and accommodations to unpack, and Snape went to his office to have a secret snifter of whisky having found the morning difficult and wearing. For the first time, he’d started to harbor doubts whether returning to Hogwarts had been such a wise idea. He felt out of step, he felt threatened, disconcerted, and all the changes of staff were unsettling. The old team, however, were welcoming and friendly, in particular Flitwick, who had engaged him in a lengthy conversation at lunch. They shared their impressions of Hellmann, and shared discreet opinions on Hellmann’s abrupt nomination for the Dueling Club. “Should’ve been you,” stated Flitwick stoutly, and Snape returned the homage, Flitwick being renowned for his dueling prowess.

In all, the morning had been jarring, and he had been struggling with sensitive eyes throughout. Nobody mentioned anything, but he resolved, having sat with his adjustable office chair almost parallel for twenty minutes and indulged in a second finger of whisky, to take matters in hand. The mystery of the missing witch’s bottle had gone on long enough. If he was going to be fit to teach in mere days, he needed to find those memories.

Still stiff and sore, he went through to his classroom, then systematically and methodically took it apart. He opened and searched every cupboard, every desk, every drawer, every shelf and compartment he knew of. He even searched behind pictures on the walls, lifted rugs in case of hidden trapdoors, pulled books off their bookcase and took down and put back every single bottle, jar, canister, beaker, phial and flask in his storage cupboards. When he’d finished there, he did the same thing in the Brewing Chamber. This was simpler, being smaller with fewer places to put things. Despair starting to creep in when no witch’s bottle eventuated, he commenced work in his office.

His miscellany of potion ingredients, displays and specimens took over an hour to examine and investigate, and all the while he entertained a slightly panicky thought that he might have just destroyed the bottle to begin with, that this search was entirely futile.  Despite his best efforts, his mind couldn’t help its natural inclination to try and remember where he’d put the bottle, and gradually the signs of the dreaded migraine began to materialize. He stopped his search to quickly consume a dose of the inhibitor potion, hoping to head it off at the pass, and was just about to test for loose bricks (a classic means of hiding loot in castles was to remove a brick, halve it, and hide things in the cavity behind) when Diaphne showed up.

“Professor?” she said in alarm at the door, finding his office in complete disarray. “What are you doing?”

“That blasted witch’s bottle!” he shouted at her, his vexation having accumulated over the preceding hours and finding a sudden outlet at her arrival. “It wasn’t in the archive, it’s not in any dungeon rooms. Where is it? _Where is it_ dammit?”

She hesitated and he took a shuddery breath and forced himself to calm down. “I’m sorry. I’m getting anxious in case it can’t be found.”

“Have you tried _accio_ -ing it?”

It took effort to keep the derision off his face. Haltingly, he said, “Yes. I have tried that. Many times, in fact.”

She sensed his scorn and frowned hard at him. “Fine. If you don’t want my help. I’ve merely brought supplementary pain inhibitor.”

He dropped his shoulders and hung his head in defeat. “It’s been a long day. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

She entered his room and held out the potion, which he took from her being gentle in his action.

“Poor Professor,” she said, as was often her wont. She gazed with sorrow. “I wish I knew where the memories were.”

No longer bothering to measure a dose, he took a swig of the draught, shaking his head as it went down. “Diaphne, think back, I know it was a while ago but think. Was there any clue at all during the ritual about where I may have put the witch’s bottle?”

Diaphne absorbed his question then paused to reflect. “I held the bottle while Aunt siphoned your memories with her wand. She would draw them out and hover them over the neck, and the bottle would suck them in. I remember that.”

“Were there a lot?”

“Yes. Hundreds. It took well over an hour.”

Hundreds. No wonder his ruptured brain was hurting.

“I see. What happened to the bottle when she’d finished?”

“She put a stopper in it, then sealed it with candlewax. There were instructions!”

“Instructions?”

“Yes! She tied instructions to the bottle. You see, your memory of the ritual and everything about it would have gone, but you wrote instructions to yourself about where to put the bottle. She always made a point of telling people to put the memories somewhere safe.”

“Then the instructions would still be with the bottle?”

“Yes, I suppose, I don’t know.”

He sighed heavily. “Well I found no sign of either. Was anyone else there? Who else might know? Or was it just you and the Wicce?”

“There was my sister Imogen. I can’t remember if she was there the whole time. And the other woman, the teacher.”

“What?” he barked, staring at her. “What teacher?”

“She’s here – she’s here today, she was at the meeting! The Astronomy teacher.”

His mind went straight to Sinistra, the piercing look, the question about the headaches. “Yes. Aurora Sinistra. She asked me if I still had headaches…” he paused. “Why was she there?”

“I don’t know. She said she knew you and…and Charity.”

He sat down at his desk, his aching back and shoulder, the migraine wrestling for dominance over the potion and the news of Sinistra’s involvement all overwhelming him suddenly.

“Are you alright?” asked Diaphne.

“Yes…I’ll be alright. I have a migraine coming on…”

“Take the potion immediately and lie down in a dark room,” she coaxed in a soft voice, then came up behind him and placed her cool hand on his forehead, shutting his eyes gently as she did so. “Everyone’s busy, you’ll achieve no more today. Look after yourself.”

He allowed himself to be soothed and, later, she took him through to his rooms and laid him down, then brought him another dose of the potion before quietly departing and shutting his door behind her.

She was right. He achieved no more that day.


	12. The Sinistra Imperative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and reviews very welcome!

It was to be a day of owls.  The first arrived at breakfast with the normal mail.  With almost all the teachers now in attendance at breakfast (exceptions being those living in Hogsmeade rather than taking school residency, including Hooch and Cropper who apparently cohabited) the amount of mail in the morning increased dramatically, and there was a steady arrival of Post Owls bringing newspapers, letters, parcels and other correspondence to the table. 

The bird that arrived for Snape, however, was no Postal Service worker.  It was an eagle owl, and around its legs were gold brocade harnesses, used to securely strap valuable or unwieldy items, and which in themselves were not unusual except for the ostentatiousness of this particular variety.  The owl was impeccably trained and therefore subtly announced its arrival, made a punctilious landing, and held up its scroll in its talons for Snape to remove without having to be chased or wrestled.  The scroll was in immaculate condition and the owl did not beg for a treat or payment, simply turned to fly out of the Hall again on broad, magnificent, silent wings.

Classy, Snape thought, and had an immediate idea as to where this scroll had been sent from.

Hagrid was sitting next to him and had observed the delivery.  “I reckon I know tha’ owl,” he said, watching as Snape broke the red seal.  The MM stamped into the wax confirmed Snape’s suspicions.  “It used to bring mail for Draco.  Or at least one exactly like it.”  He shoveled some bacon into his mouth and unsuccessfully tried to read the opened scroll over Snape’s shoulder.

_Dearest Severus_

_It seems a miracle._

_There had been rumours circulating for years that you were still alive.  I can’t tell you how overjoyed Cissy and I were to open the Daily Prophet last week and see you on the front page._

_I insist you join us at the Manor for dinner, this week if you are available.  Would Friday suit?_

_In case you are concerned, far more water than perhaps you realise has passed under the bridge.  Our invitation is strictly offered in friendship and in the greatest hopes of reestablishing old acquaintances.  We have not forgotten what you did for Draco._

_I look forward to your positive reply._

_Lucius_

Snape read the letter several times, and in so doing, missed his chance at a serve of bacon.  He instead refilled his cup with coffee, and read it once more, triple checking for hidden messages or codes, subtle communications he would be expected to decipher.  It was astonishing, even to him, how ingrained that Death Eater mentality had become.  A single word from Malfoy, and here he was ready to burn after reading.  Did ‘miracle’ denote something?  Was ‘water’ or ‘bridge’ significant?  Did ‘reestablish old acquaintances’ actually allude to a reformation of some kind, the reinstatement of an old order?

Or could Malfoy be taken at his word?  He just genuinely wanted to catch up.

Snape’s Dark Mark had, in all senses, faded into inconsequence over the years.  It had once been blindingly black, constant in its agitation, burning, needling; and messages had come with it, mysterious commands and codes accompanying a flare on his left wrist.  During the last year of the war, he’d all but walked around with it extended out in front of him like a compass, awaiting instruction.  Now, when he looked at it, the reassuring paleness of it was like the point of realization that a dream had been but a dream, it was now no more than the trace of destroyed skin cells, a stain, a…a mistake.

Apparently, the indoctrination had its own means of lingering. 

While he was prepared to suspect his own suspicions about Malfoy’s letter, strong feeling about Malfoy himself were not aroused.  He viewed the letter more as an artefact of the Malfoys’ jealously  protected upper middle-class upbringing than an authentic extension of brotherhood, or “joy” as he’d put it.  Almost all of Malfoy’s motivations originated from a deep wellspring of self-preservation, status quo and aggrandizement.   He was a Slytherin amongst Slytherins, and with cunning instincts that made him act before he even knew what he needed to be cunning about, Malfoy mopped up every single overlooked opportunity or loose thread to ensure his – and those of his closest – were positioned squarely and securely.

But when Malfoy realized he’d backed the wrong horse in Voldemort, and before he’d attached to a new saviour, he’d been at his most vulnerable.  He’d seen the inside of Azkaban.  He’d been humiliated and degraded, used and abandoned and he’d almost lost his only son.   Malfoy had been more broken than even Snape.   It was perhaps this reason more than any other that intrigued him and eventually resolved him to accept the invitation.

He would write a reply later.  Right now he had a pressing agenda: he wanted to talk to Sinistra.

He searched the faces at the breakfast table, but hers was not amongst them.  The only other place she would likely be was the Astronomy Tower.  He was about to down his coffee and depart when Hagrid said, “Was that Draco’s owl?  Was the le’er from Draco then?”

“Uh, in a manner, it was from Lucius.”

Hagrid’s face darkened.  He and the Malfoys forever parted ways over the Buckbeak incident, but they barely tolerated each other before then.  “Wazzee want then?  Bored not having no one to pick on?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Snape dismissively. His thoughts having been momentarily cast back to the battle, he asked: “Hagrid – whatever happened to Grawp?”

“Grawp?!” Hagrid face changed utterly.  His eyebrows and beard were greying now, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were like sunrays.  “’E’s gone back to the mountains, a hero is ‘ee.  ‘E’ll have no more grief from that lot.  ‘E was doin’ too much damage to the Forest to stay permanent like.  Bu’ I’ll goan see ‘im from time to time, make sure ‘e’s alright.”

“And what’s this I hear about you learning rugby?”

The smile was retained.  “Ah!  Hentie!  She’s teachin’ me the rules.  Not to play, but so’s she can have a body to talk to.  She goes’n watches the matches in the Muggle pubs on the weekends.  Then she comes back’n tells me who’s winnin’.  I s’pport Scotland.  She’s right though, the Springboks’ll beat ‘em.”

Snape raised a single, skeptical brow.  “And Drop Bears in the Forbidden Forest?  Really Hagrid, are you still trying to convince people they’re real?”

“’Gizzon!  I swear’n me mother, if you walk about the Forest tonight, thar’s a good chance one’ll land square’n’ee’s head.”

Snape shook his head slightly, perplexed.  “I missed a lot.”

“You’re doin’ great, Sev’rus.  S’not easy comin’ home.”

“You’re right,” said Snape, giving the wise old gamekeeper a ghost of a smile.  “You can’t go back.”

“Jus’ keep goin’ forward.”

From the breakfast table, Snape decided there was no time like the present and was just about to make a bee-line for the Astronomy Tower, when he heard an authoritative: “Severus?”

He knew straight away it was McGonagall and turned where he stood.  “Ma’am?”

She was in her seat, _the_ seat, he realized, which no longer felt like Dumbledore’s, the association in his head was changing. It was her seat now.  And in front of her, the ever-present tea pot.

“A moment, perchance?”

“Ma’am.”

He came to her side and sat in the seat next to her.  Many an informal meeting had been held thus.  “I can’t find Professor Binns,” she said.  “He wasn’t here yesterday for the staff meeting, he’s not in the classroom, not in the staffroom: he seems to have disappeared.  We have, it _appears_ , no History teacher.  Do you think you could solve the puzzle for me?”

“Of course.”

“And I received this today, from the Board of Governors.  Recommended changes to the OWLs.  Please read it and report back to me what they’re proposing.” She handed him a tube with scrolls in it.

“Ma’am.”  His second owl today.

“And lastly: I haven’t heard further.  What is happening with the Slytherin Common Room?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am.  Have you spoken to Horace?”

“Is he in charge of it?”

“I’ll talk to him.  He’s Head of House.”

“And engage Filius and Agatha – between the three of them, they should have that archive converted lickity –split.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

In Snape’s head the list of chores and obligations was getting longer and longer.  While he’d worked during his abscondment, the jobs had been wage-paying, mostly manual-based, the kind of thing that could be left behind at the end of the day, that didn’t trouble anyone unduly when he gave a weeks’ notice intending to move on again.  He deliberately avoided responsibility or anything that required his attendance for more than a year, so finding himself as Deputy and starting to shoulder McGonagall’s burden was drawing on almost retired parts of his organizational brain and stamina he wasn’t sure he still had.

McGonagall sensed it.  She placed a light hand on his forearm.  “Are you alright, Severus?  Are you coping?”

“Coping, Ma’am?” he replied curtly. It was one thing for him to wonder, quite another for his superior to question it. “Of course.  I’ll get on.”

“Will you call me Minerva?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again then nodded once.

* * *

 

The walk to the Astronomy Tower gave Snape the chance to structure his list of chores and obligations mentally.  Dimly he was aware that the normal background din of building and construction work was missing, which he interpreted as all of Fetherington’s workers having been pulled off their normal works to focus on the dungeon.

He mounted the spiral staircase two at a time and stopped at the first level which was the Astronomy room and called for Sinistra.  No response.  He continued up the stairs until he reached the top, the observation deck, and again called for her.

No answer.

He cursed in his head.  He didn’t have time for this.  Where would she be?

Just then came a clanking noise and floating up the stairs came the Bloody Baron.  The ghost stopped abruptly at the sight of him, his chains giving rattle, and he said, “Holla Professor Snape!”

“Baron – how are you?  I mean, how art thee?”

“Ah, Professor, I am unchanged, as thee wouldst expecteth, since I liveth in a temp’ral plane. I am m'rely going about mine own n'rmal haunting.  What endues thee to the Toweth'r high-lone?”

“I was seeking Professor Sinistra.  Did you encounter her in your passage?”

“Oh the lady hast gone out.  We are not cater-cousins.  I waiteth until the lady hath left afore I haunt.”

“Do you know where she might have gone?”

“I do not. Thee might liketh to tryeth the p'rtraits.  Since we art speaking, Professor, the work on the Slyth’rin Common Room by those blaggards - ow much longeth'r shallt it continueth?  Tis intol'rable!”

“I will consult with the builders today, Baron.  I have a question for thee.  I seek your help also.”

“Bid me thy question!”

“We cannot locate Professor Binns.  Has he…has he finally passed over?”

The Baron floated thoughtfully and clinked his chains through his hands.  “I knoweth not. I shall needeth to talketh to the oth'r ghosts.”

“Can you let me know, Baron?”

The Baron inclined his head and floated back down through the floor of the Tower.

Snape himself descended the stairs and came to the castle’s first floor, where he consulted the nearest portrait.  The portraits discussed amongst themselves until the portrait of Hengist Rawkes was able to confirm that Sinistra was seen leaving via the front entrance only minutes earlier.  Snape headed directly for the front door.

When Snape stepped out onto the courtyard, he searched the grounds and finally spotted the figure of Sinistra walking alone and down across the grassy bank towards the lake.

He immediately set off in pursuit.  “Professor!  Aurora!” he called, wondering where on earth she was going.  Eventually having heard him, she paused and turned, then waited until he could catch up.

“Morning Severus,” she said when he came to her side. “What’s wrong?  Do you need me for something?” She had continued her sedate walk.  He noticed she carried a posy.

“There is a matter…you mentioned my headaches – but I’m interrupting,” he indicated her flowers.  “May I join you?”

“By all means.”

“And you are headed…?”

“The White Tomb of course.  I always miss the anniversary.”

Of course indeed.  He had only paid his respects once since the Battle of the Tower, during the year of 1998.  It had been at night, alone, still moonless.  He’d worn his cloak with the hood up, constantly alert for either of the Carrows in case they saw him. He had stood by the tomb for several minutes in the dark, his thoughts meandering, unpracticed as he was at formal mourning.  Though he was at Dumbledore’s resting place, his thoughts had turned to Lily because he was reminded again that he’d never been to her grave – he was considered unwelcome at the places his lost ones resided.  If they themselves knew he was there, beside them, however, he didn’t feel they would turn him away.   Both would bid him welcome.  He had placed a hand on the cold, white marble and said to Dumbledore in a whisper, “Sir, I miss our talks.  I hope…I hope what I’m doing is right.”

For the remainder of the distance to the tomb, he and Sinistra walked in silence, and then Snape halted and allowed Sinistra to approach the luminous sarcophagus in private.  The waves of the lake could be heard lapping gently against the shore, and in the distance, far across the other side, were dusky blue mountains.  A narrow path had been formed in the damp lawn, he noticed, by regular visitors to the tomb, and at its base were pots of flowering plants.

Sinistra placed her posy down beside the others and bowed her head for a moment, then straightened, turned back to Snape and came slowly towards him.  “You know,” she said, “The Astronomy Tower’s been almost ruined for me.  I am reminded every…single…day of what happened.  It’s been nine years, and still, whenever I go to the top of the Tower, I imagine him falling.  I have leaned over the ramparts, where he fell from, and I try to imagine what it must have been like for him.  But he was dead, wasn’t he Severus.  He was dead before he fell?”

He had hurtled back through time in his mind’s eye, the same scattering of memories he had himself of that night, the anger he’d felt.  He remembered Draco’s face.  He remembered Dumbledore’s hair lifting slightly in the breeze, and his Headmaster’s eyes – Snape was waiting for the look from him, the tiny nod, the slight uplift at the outer-corners of his eyes the merest, almost invisible signal that told him, _Go ahead, Severus, as we agreed, I am ready_.   His heart had pounded so much adrenalin through him his hands shook, his wand had tried to hold still, and he thought _I can’t, it won’t work_ , and he thought, _because I don’t feel it, I don’t feel it_ and when he’d first said the killing curse, he’d opened his mouth and only a croak came out, Yaxley had turned to look at him, and Dumbledore had slightly twitched his head, a question.

And then Snape had shut down everything. 

“Yes.  He was dead,” muttered Snape and he didn’t want to look at Sinistra and see the blame there.

“Have you forgiven yourself?” she asked him.

“No.”

She held out a hand and took him behind his arm, then urged him gently towards the tomb.  “Have you thought about asking him?”

“No.”

She nodded, waited a moment, then said with her eyes resting in the middle distance: “It’s between him and you.  In some ways I envy him.  There are so many horrible ways to die…but when you know it’s time, and at the hands of a friend who did everything he could, and you know that friend won’t let you suffer, and you know that friend will remember it, and you know that friend will not let it have been in vain…  I think, Severus, he asked you the greatest honour he could think of.  We don’t choose our mothers who bring us into the world, but he got to choose who would take him out of it.  And he chose you.  Can you imagine anything else more profound?”

Snape didn’t speak.  He had almost forgotten why he came to see Sinistra in the first place, his eyes were fixed on the tomb and something inside him was quivering.

“He must have trusted you completely,” murmured Sinistra.  “You must have done something to earn that.”

The tears that wanted to fall were like lava in his throat, he swallowed hard.  As much as he wanted to grieve for Dumbledore, it was the things she saying about him that made his heart wrench.  It was as though she were forgiving him when Dumbledore couldn’t.

Then Sinistra turned to him with an appraising look.  “Have you asked Charity for her forgiveness?”

Her words tolled in his ears, reverberated in his head like a grim, cold soul-bell and suddenly he looked at her and she stared back at him steadily. She wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t frowning. 

“Charity?” was the only word to escape him.

“ _She_ has no tomb, Severus.  No resting place.  I wanted to say goodbye to her.  She was my friend.”

He remembered Charity on the dining table, Nagini sliding towards her, the great snake’s reflection in the glossy surface of the wood.

“You were there when she died.”

“How did you know?” he asked, his voice thick, breathing hoarse.

She shook her head.  “I didn’t.”  Her expression became bleak.  “There were rumours…through the Order…people who knew people…An investigation by a journalist after the war.”

His heart started to thump painfully.  “I don’t want Servius to know.”

“Servius?”

“My…my son.”

Her eyes cleared and her lips parted in a faintest of smiles.  “The baby was yours?  You said it wasn’t - ,”

“He was.”

“Oh Merlin.  Where is he?”

“He’s coming.  He’ll be on the Express.”  Snape reached into his pocket and withdrew the photo, handing it to Sinistra.  She took it from him so lightly it almost seemed to float into her fingers and she examined the picture for several minutes.

“Papus save us.  Severus, how could you let her die like that?  She was the mother of your son!” Sinistra turned away from him, face lifted to the sky.  “You were supposed to have loved her!”

“Was I?” he muttered, anguish and guilt like elemental forces within him, brewing a fierce Slytherin defensiveness.  “WAS I?  I DON’T REMEMBER! Where is the bottle Aurora?  You were there!  Where is it?”

She swung back round to face him, her eyes wide.  “How do you -?”  She read on his face that he had discovered everything.  “Why do you want the bottle?”

“I have to put the memories back… I have to see them.”

She stared at him for a long while, evaluating him it seemed, and he swallowed, forcing down the grief, the anger and shame, but held her gaze.

Then she nodded and handed him back his photo.

“You should.  You should remember her, and you should not be spared knowing, for your son’s sake, how you took a coward’s way out.”

A coward.  He despised the word.

“ _I’m not a coward!_ ” he shouted, and it was instinctive, unexpected.  He didn’t care who heard.  He caught Sinistra off-guard a little, her choice of word, while deliberate, was not intentionally to provoke him.  Then her eyes flared.

“ _If you could find the courage for Dumbledore, why couldn’t you do it for her?_ ”

Geese that had been paddling in the lake nearby took flight, a thundering of wings.  They had been perturbed partly by the shouting, and partly by the great ripples that had formed without warning on the surface of the lake, rolling away from the point where Snape stood as his uncontrolled magic erupted. 

He needed a minute for the blackout to subside, and Sinstra waited.  He had no answer for her.  No satisfactory answer, only excuses.  She may not understand, she hadn't been there, she couldn’t have known the extraordinary risk he was managing.  But were they were all excuses?  “I hadn’t loved her then,” he said.

“Then how are you going to feel when you see the memories?”

He looked down at the ground, exhausted.  “I’ll feel…what I deserve to feel.  The memories are of my own making.  Good or bad.”

Sinistra paused, looking out across the lake.  “She was waiting for you, did you know that?” Her voice was hard and condemning.  “She came to the funeral.  She asked me where you were.”

“Please, Aurora…I can’t bring her back…” His head was whirling, he’d had no warning any of this was coming.  He followed her gaze over the lake, towards the mountains.

Then he heard her say in a tight voice, “Then why don’t you cry?”  And when he looked back at her, he saw that tears were openly flowing down her cheeks.  “Nobody cried for her.”

 

* * *

 

Snape had walked away, back the way they’d come, leaving Sinistra alone by the Tomb.  He had been reeling, barely breathing, and when the castle came back to his consciousness, he couldn’t face it.  He cast his flying spell and lifted upwards, away, up to the height of the tallest trees in the forest.  He soared the full length of the lake and towards the mountains.  The speed, the intense, barely controlled motion overpowered everything else: it required his full concentration.  He scared flocks of ducks off the water and swooped deftly to avoid them; when he passed pines growing close to the edge, they swayed in his wake.  But it was draining, and he turned, covering the distance to return directly to the Astronomy Tower.

He landed on the observation deck and restored to normal form, but, finding the top of the Tower empty, he descended the spiral stairs to the rooms below.  “Aurora?”

“Here.”

She emerged from her office carrying two brass lanterns plated with deep red glass.  These she placed on a table with half a dozen more.  “Feel a bit better?” she asked in droll tones.  “Worked it out of your system?”

He had come in peace, but apparently her own feelings on the matter were still simmering.  He stood straight with his hands clasped behind his back.

“I – I didn’t want to fight with you.  You might be able to help me.  Diaphne said you were present at the _Memoriam Delens_.”

“For some of it, yes.  The Wicce _Oliviated_ my memory afterwards so I don’t remember anything that went on during the ritual.”

She was resting her hands on the table, looking at him and waiting.

“Why were you there?”

“You asked me if I knew anyone who could do it.  Severus, as I’m sure you know, it’s an extremely dangerous and highly illegal practice.  I did know someone, but I didn’t want my name associated with it in any way.  Dumbledore would have sacked me quick as look at me.  I asked for all traces of me to be eradicated. The Wicce is an old hand at this, she knew exactly what to do.  I knew I went to help, and that’s about all.”

“Was it…I had been in the Hogs Head –?”

“Yes.  I found you there and got you to the Hospital Wing.  And there commenceth the headaches.”

She offered him a satiric smile that didn’t meet her eyes.  She picked up a lantern, opened its little hinged door and removed that candle stub within.

“I can’t find the bottle with my memories,” Snape told her.  “The migraines have become debilitating; I almost lost my sight.  Do you know – did I destroy the bottle?”

She glanced up at him.  “Lost your sight?  I’ve heard there are side-effects -,”

“The Wicce says I might suffer less if I can restore the memories,” he said. 

“So you’ve been in touch with the Wicce since the ritual?” asked Sinistra, with a penetrating stare.  “How did you find her?”

“She found me.”

Sinistra put down the lantern and held his gaze steadily.  “Leave my name out of it.  You promised you would.  You promised you’d never raise it with me again.”

“My word is good.  Did I destroy the bottle, Aurora?  Or do you know where it is?”

There was a long pause.  Sinistra swung the door of her lantern to and fro.  “Your son..Servius…is he much like Charity?”

“I don’t know.  Physically he resembles me more.”

She became vague, distant.  “I remember meeting her when she was pregnant – I mean, she was quite along.  She was glowing, she looked happy.  I’m so stupid, I should have known it was yours the whole time.  Her big master plan…it didn’t save her.”

“None of it…was her fault,” said Snape, pushing down his impatience, his urgency. 

“She should have just kept her stupid mouth shut.  I bet the Prophet seduced her, flattered her.  They just wanted column inches.  She was naïve.”

“Yes.  Was she…like that?  Naïve?”

Sinistra nodded.  “Like a fairy to a Call.”

His mind was feeling the compulsion to remember, and he tethered it tightly.  “Aurora, please…what happened to the bottle?”

She raised her eyes to his.  “I took the bottle, Severus.  I took the bottle and put it away safely.”

A wave of relief crashed through him.  He shut his eyes and exhaled.  “Thank Merlin.”

“It was in your bag.  You didn’t know about it.  I took it out and put it away.”

“Where?  Where is it?”

She seemed deflated suddenly, as if she had just surrendered defeat.  “In the archive.  I followed the instructions you wrote, but it’s in my own lockbox, I only had my wand, not yours.”

“Thank you,” said Snape, heartfelt.  “thank you for putting them away.”

“I told you not to do it,” she snapped at him, eyes flashing.  “If you go blind, it’s your own fault!”

He inclined his head once.  He didn’t mind her anger any more, he understood it came from her feelings of impotence about Charity, in fact in a small way he treasured having a person to share the loss with.  “When…when can we retrieve them?”

“I won’t get them, Severus!” the heat in her words was reflected on her face. “I won’t get them until you swear to me, _swear_ to me on Charity’s name, that you will look after that boy and you will care for him as Charity would have.”

He took a moment to answer, struck as he was by a blinding realization that this was second time in the Astronomy Tower he had sworn to protect a boy.  He blinked at the strange, unexpected parallel, the ministrations of fate that had brought him here.  “Aurora, he’s my own son -,”

She laughed bitterly.  “ _That_ doesn’t convince me.  Look how you treated Harry.”

And Snape winced.

“And I want you to make me his Godmother, so if anything happens to you, I can look after him.”

“He has grand -,”

“Muggles!”

He frowned at her, uncertain, but saw the intensity in her eyes.  She really meant it.  He sensed she was a woman who’d have wanted children of her own. And she raised a good point, that Servius had no one else in the wizarding world but him.  Godparents in this world had serious freight.

He inclined his head again.  “Yes.  I will do that.  I agree.”

“Tomorrow.  Bring me your Will with the clause that he comes to me if you die.  When I see you’ve made me Godmother, I’ll give you the bottle.”

He frowned, rather disconcerted by her words. It had the feel of an Unbreakable Vow.  “Aurora, that’s perilously close to blackmail -,”

“In which everybody wins?  Servius has a guardian, you have a backstop and I have…I have peace of mind.  For Charity.”

Snape remembered how Potter had felt about Sirius Black, what had appeared as a nauseating affection and attachment he hadn’t understood, didn’t relate to. A masquerade on the part of Black.  But the idea that Servius would have someone who would reach out to him, offer him a safe haven if couldn’t be here, attempt to care for him and protect him as Sirius had tried to do…

He shifted uncomfortably.  It was as if his history wasn’t yet done with him.  He was Scrooge with the Ghost of Christmas Past, tripping him up and forcing him to look again.    

“I don’t have a will…” he began, and Sinistra raised a brow at him.

“Well you have family now.  What better time?”

 

* * *

 

The events of the morning should have been enough for one day; Snape certainly felt that as he trekked back from the Astronomy Tower towards the dungeon, wondering how to go about creating a Last Will and Testament.  It should, realistically, be a matter of two or three lines: all my worldly possessions are to be transferred in full to – and the thought made his steps slow for a moment – to my son, _to my son_.  And it occurred to him that what he had in the way of inheritance was paltry at best.  There was a house, in Cokeworth, although modest would be a grandiose word to describe it.  What was left of his savings after eight years of self-sufficient travel.  A smattering of personal belongings.  His expression was nothing less than foreboding as he descended Slughorn’s Stairs to the dungeons, it having been brought home to him forcibly that for all his forty-five years on the earth, though action-packed, he had virtually nothing to show for it.  A comprehensive knowledge of the Dark Arts he would take with him to the grave, his wand: useless to anyone else.  The kindest, most generous thing he could leave in his Will, it appeared, would be the benefaction of a Godmother.

As he approached his office, the noise of building work became ever louder, and he decided to maintain his course and go directly to the end of the corridor where the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room was.  It was open to allow free flow of builders carrying tools and equipment, but that was the least of the affronts to the most secret of Houses.  Inside was a warren of scaffolding, netting, tarpaulin, bright gaslamps and pulleys, and in the air, faint traces of lime and gypsum.  A fine coating of white powder was resting on almost every inert surface.  Up towards the ceiling, standing on planks, were workmen and masons attending to the detailed stone between the glass, and below, more masons were hammering and chipping away at blocks of stone.  Still more were using wands to work the stone on bed-moulds, carving grooves and designs.

As he stood in the doorway, feeling encouraged and dismayed in equal measure, Filch came towards him from where he’d been standing with a knot of builders near the fireplace.  He had a dust mask over his face and removed it to talk to Snape as he approached.  “Ah, Professor Snape, come to check on progress?”

“This _is_ progress?”

“Slow but steady.” Filch held up the dust mask.  “We’re reduced to Muggle technology, I’m afraid.  The work’s too detailed and risky to chance to magic.  As good as these men are.  Hope the Headmistress used a good strong _barricadus_ charm?”

“I believe she would have used the strongest she knew.”

Fetherington spied him and came over, thumbs hitched in the loopholes of his dungarees.  “Nice to see you Professor.  Checking in?”

“The Headmistress seeks a report.  What is your estimation for a completion date?”

Fetherington glanced over at his builders and rolled his lips in contemplation.  “Slow.  It’s slow. Another three or four weeks barring unforeseen an’ all that.”

Snape’s shoulders slumped, as much as he tried to remain unreadable.  “I see.  The level of risk remains the same?”

“Worse I think,” commented Fetherington amicably.  “The crew reckon they’ve seen the giant squid and then another one, smaller.  Youngster, I reckon.  If those things are breeding, Merlin knows…have you ever thought about just getting everyone above ground?”

Leave the dungeon? Snape almost said out loud.  Unthinkable.  “I don’t believe the squid – or whatever they are – present a problem.  We’ve coexisted for hundreds of years with never an issue.  But thank you for the report.”

With that, Snape swirled around and walked away, briefly distracted by the idea of a growing population of massive cephalopods in the lake, and then discarded it, simply not having the mental space.  He stopped by Slughorn’s office.

“Severus, good to see you!”

Slughorn had opened the door to him, positioning his glasses in a hasty manner and straightening his cardigan.  He gave the strong impression of someone who’d been asleep.

“Horace – I only have a minute, but I’ve just come from the Common Room and the builder advises at least four weeks before the room will be habitable again.  Are you taking a lead on the archive conversion?”

“Oh, ah, um -,” Slughorn’s eyebrows rose and he glanced about him as if looking for the answer to this question.

“Could I enlist your assistance with this?  I suggest you include Flitwick and Froggonmore.  The Headmistress is keen for news on progress.”

“Ah yes, alright – not strictly my expertise, but -,”

“Then have you decided on your venture as Emeritus?” Snape enquired, feigning politeness.

Slughorn blinked at him.  “Got a few ideas I’m bandying about,” he said momentarily with a cheery grin.  “Plenty of time, though, plenty of time.  Now see here, since you’re about, I’m planning a retirement shindig over at the Broomsticks, probably the Friday before school starts.  You in?”

Snape frowned at the impromptu change of topic, and then at the idea of an uncomfortable social gathering, but then leveled out and said, “Of course. I’d be delighted.”

“Stirling.  Good work, man.  Um – bring a friend, open tab of course.”

Slughorn removed his glasses and, smiling and nodding, indicated that he was closing the door to his office again, presumably his nap was calling him.  Snape’s eyes twitched a little, but he bade Slughorn a good morning and stepped back, the door shutting in his face.  Cursing under his breath, he decided to search out Flitwick and Froggonmore himself, and from there, McGonagall.

He returned to Ground Floor and was about to traverse the Entrance Hall when there was a coarse, sharp screech above his head.  He looked up and saw an owl perched on a stone corbel, and which flapped its wings when it had his attention.  He held out his forearm and the owl half-flew, half simply dropped onto it and huffily folded its wings in that slightly disgruntled manner of owls who have decided that messaging is beneath them.

The black feathers around the vibrant yellow eyes was instantly recognizable.  “Täne?” he said, and the owl chattered its beak, sinking its claws slightly into his arm.

A message had been folded up and attached to Täne’s leg with an elastic band.  How Servius had managed to get the owl to stay still long enough to twist the band several times it was impressive in itself.  He pulled the message free, and discovered it written on blue-lined notepaper, the little rips from the spiral binding still intact, the words written in ball-point.  It was a starkly contrasting intersect between Servius’s Muggle world and his own.

 _Dear Mr Snape_ , began the message.

_I am sending this letter to see if T_ _ä_ _ne can find you.  If you get this, can you send him back with a letter from you telling me the date?  I’m sending this on Monday 14 th August and it’s two pm.  How long did it take him?_

_Hope your (sic) well.  I am fine.  Ma and Pa keep sneezing because I am hexing them._

_From Servius._

Snape couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a tone in the letter that was less hate-filled.  Servius was looking for his help, his participation in a small experiment with the wizarding world in which his father resided, only accessible to him by owl.  _How far away is your world?_ the letter seemed to ask.  _Are you there?_   Servius then remembered his manners, this being a subject of some frequency between them, and then conspired with him over the hexing, their one small secret, the admission from Servius that not everything about Snape and Hogwarts completely “sucked”.   Snape imagined that Servius had only relinquished Täne with the greatest of hesitation, with an absolute leap of faith, and would be at home now, fretting, half persuaded that the owl would never return because the world of Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, hexing – it couldn’t have been really real.

It was (Snape searched for a clock, despite being mere feet from the clock tower – he really needed a watch) a little after midday – so the owl had flown from Trowbridge in the south west of England and found him in ten hours.  Not bad for a highly inexperienced bird on what was, no doubt, its maiden voyage.

Normally Snape would simply release an owl and it would find its own way to either the owlery or wherever they went.  But this was Servius’s pride and joy, it would be tired and hungry.  He summoned an elf and told him to take Täne to the owlery, feed and water it like a prized racehorse, then he would send it away again first thing in the evening, after a rest and with a reply.

The letter, he kept.  He put it in the same pocket he kept the photo.  He had since magicked a seal to this pocket, not prepared to lose the picture again, and he resealed it now, the letter having acquired providential status.

 

* * *

 

The writing of a Will, he discovered later that day in his office, could be as simple or as complicated as you cared to make it, or as personal circumstances dictated.  The library book he had consulted assured him that since he only had one dependent and that he owned all his possessions outright, the creation of a will for him was a relatively simple procedure, which he thus set about to prove on a fine piece of parchment, with his best quill and fresh ink, at his desk to the dim background noise of banging in the Common Room.

He had taken the significant step of having no will and no cares about his body or belongings after his death, to leaving the house at Spinners End to Servius, all his chattels and property to him as well.  If Servius were under seventeen at the time of his death, his care was to be appointed to Aurora Sinistra if Servius chose to reside in the wizarding world, or to his grandparents if he preferred the Muggle one.  Either way, Sinistra was to have unfettered access to oversee his care, health and happiness.  He requested that he be buried with his wand but wasn’t specific about where (he felt somewhere on the grounds of Hogwarts would be nice but didn’t think that would be appropriate unless he ended up as some great Headmaster like Dumbledore). Lastly he appointed McGonagall to be the executioner of his Will, and if not her, then Candace Peacock.

He was satisfied with the final document.  He’d kept his handwriting as neat as possible, it was free of smudges or blots, and, far more importantly, it was gratifying to think that in some small way there would be someone to care for the few things he had valued, in such a way that he might be remembered.  He’d authored many sound papers about potioneering, most having been published by recognized authorities, and he’d like them to be respected.  He had a fine library of books, some antiques, and – while not to everyone’s taste – his curation actually had worth and merit.  He also had, now, a small treasury of Charity’s belongings, and if on his death, Servius threw every last one of his papers, books and qualifications on the fire, he at least, surely, would cherish his mother’s things.  He would keep them safe this way.  The name Servius meant, after all, to preserve.

He then took up a fresh piece of parchment and wrote to his son.  His heart felt a little closer to the surface as he did so, a faint, pleasurable ache, he didn’t know why.

With Servius’s note on the desk beside him, he wrote:

_Dear Servius_

_T_ _ä_ _ne did very well.  He reached me in ten hours, perhaps the castle sooner.  He called me to let me know he had arrived, and perched on my arm, so he did his job perfectly.  Ten hours from where you are is a good time for a beginner owl.  I thought I bought harnesses for his legs, so next time use those because I don’t think elastic bands are  good for owls._

_As he has traveled a long way, I have let him rest in the owlery before sending him back to you.  The time I will release him will be seven-thirty pm.  I would be interested to know if he returns to you under ten hours._

_As for the hexing, you clearly have an aptitude for it, but I suggest you stop now, it is unfair on your grandparents.  Remember, the Ministry will know._

_Soon you will be on the Hogwarts Express.  I will be here and waiting for you.  It will be strange at first, that is normal, but I will be watching over you, as will your mother, making sure you are alright._

Snape spent a long time deciding how best to sign off.  It wasn’t easy.  He poured a snifter of whisky and hoped that would help.  He set the letter aside and started reading the report from the Board of Governors about OWLs.  He answered a Floo from McGonagall and then spent half an hour with Slughorn who had come to consult him about the archive conversion.  When he came back to the letter, he was no clearer.  He didn’t think he yet loved his son, but what he felt was decidedly more than an acquaintance.  He didn’t want to overwhelm Servius with proclamations that didn’t seem genuine yet wanted him to know that he already inhabited a part of him that none other did.  Words did not yet exist.

Finally, inadequately, he took up his quill and wrote:

_I am thinking of you._

_Dad._

He rolled up the parchment and sealed it before he changed his mind.  Writing the word Dad had felt foreign, peculiar and…wonderful.

Many times he’d wanted to tell Lily that he loved her but had balked.  He’d thought, surely, his actions would say it clearly enough…she must have known.  His instincts had warned him, however, what her response would be if he’d said the words out loud.  He’d rather not know, delude himself, than go out in the open and have it confirmed.  As events had transpired, he’d realized he’d interpreted her feelings correctly and she had not cultivated anything beyond affection.  He’d gone about getting her answer in a different way, driven her in to the arms of another.  She would have anyway, he understood now.  He’d forced the point, given her an out.  The whole situation had spared her the embarrassing, awkward moment when she’d have had to explain to him that she was going with James to the Yule Ball or no, she wasn’t going to be in Cokeworth this summer.  In some ways, as heartbreaking as it had been for him, the way fate had dealt it had made things easier.

But that shyness had manifested itself again with Servius, a simple fear of rejection. Calling himself Dad had insisted on something that Servius couldn’t argue with.  _Go ahead and call me Mr Snape_ , he’d thought.  _I’m still your Dad_.

One day, Servius would address him as Dad.  He would see to it.

He had one last letter to write, and again took up his quill.  He replied to Lucius, accepting the invitation.  He kept it brief, reasonably formal, stated the time he would arrive.  Then he sat back and finished his whisky.  With a twinge he realized he’d spent almost the entire day attending to his own affairs, and hearing quiet emanating from down the corridor, calculated that the builders had gone for the day.  With thoughts of McGonagall, he took out again the scroll from the Ministry and turned his mind to the matter of OWLs.

 

 


	13. The Malfoys

Two owls were sent south on the Tuesday evening.

On Wednesday morning, Snape met McGonagall in her office and advised her about his Will. She was seated at The Desk, portrait Dumbledore behind her dozing, her gramophone playing but at a subdued level so as not to disrupt her carefully constructed ambience of calm. Before her was a pyramid of parchment, and where she held her quill, the tips of her fingers were stained almost black with ink. When he’d entered, her glasses had slipped down to the very tip of her nose, and she pushed them back with a knuckle.

“A Will, Severus? I do hope this is because you’ve been reading books on responsible parenting, and not because you have some foolish idea in mind?”

“No, Ma’am, neither, I was…tactfully reminded that now Servius is present in my life that creating one would be timely.”

“Well I agree. But if you want to ask about writing an effective Will, perhaps Dumbledore is your man.”

“My Will is – rightly or wrongly – a good deal simpler. I do actually own everything I hope to leave to him. Ma’am, if you’d consent to be executor, the whole business – should it come to pass in your lifetime - would trouble you less than fifteen minutes.”

“Of course, Severus,” said McGonagall, frowning slightly at this and putting out her hand to receive the document. He handed it to her and she unrolled it, reading the entire contents in the space it took for one track to change to another on her gramophone.

“Professor Sinistra?” she asked abruptly, glancing at him.

“She has requested it. She and Charity were close friends.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows peaked. “Yes, that’s true, I remember them together. I transfigured a few gowns for Charity; it was Aurora’s idea. But still – does she have any experience or references on which you base your decision?”

“As many, if not more, than anyone else I can think of.”

“Well she’s certainly no worse than an escaped convict if we’re thinking on Godparents. You do appreciate, Severus, that if anything should happen to you, the school would close around Servius. He would not be deserted.”

He gave a slight, hesitant nod. “Thank you Ma’am. I am glad to know that.”

“So where would you like me to sign?”

Once she had signed and applied her seal to his Will, he rolled it up again and then briefed her on his progress with Professor Binns (still none the wiser), the Board’s OWL improvements (a means for students to aggregate credit by proving competent across a selection if the curriculum were divided into composite parts rather than as whole subjects) and the progress of the Slytherin Common Room.

“Hmm.   So the archive conversion is underway?”

“I shall be checking on it presently.”

“I’d like to see it once it’s finished. Do let me know, Severus.”

“Of course.”

“Oh – and another thing – Horace is holding a retirement function at the Broomsticks on first September. I’ve offered to say a few words and I would like it if you would as well – you know, Slytherin related, Slug Club, his prowess at potions, that kind of thing.”

“Certainly. It would be an honour.”

She smiled at him, and she looked very tired indeed. “Thank you. How are your headaches?”

He paused and noticed that she shut her eyes for a moment, resting them. “Don’t concern yourself about them, Ma’am. Have you perhaps seen Madam Pomfrey yourself?”

She looked startled. “I’m sorry?”

Dumbledore had roused having heard Snape’s voice. He said, “You see Minerva? Let Poppy give you something for the insomnia.”

McGonagall pressed her lips together and scowled from Dumbledore to Snape. “Mind your own business, the pair of you.”

 

* * *

 

All across the castle and its grounds, teachers were in their offices and classrooms, their towers, workshops and glasshouses, preparing for the arrival of the students. The kitchen elves were unpacking and stocking vast quantities of food, the perishables in stone larders beneath the ground. House elves were in the dormitories, making beds and cleaning bathrooms. New books for the library were being catalogued, the new sand for the Quidditch pitch was being laid, Longbottom was composting and Hagrid was burying fresh gold for the Nifflers to find. Even the ghosts were busy undoing the damage Peeves was gleefully wreaking, inspired as he was by industry and effort.

Only Snape was distracted. He abandoned his recent delivery of potion ingredients and additives in a corner of his office in favour of once more seeking out Sinistra. He rationalised that this was less about his own feverish need to fix broken places in his head, and more about ensuring he would be fitter and more reliable for the classroom.

He discovered her in the Astronomy Room, lying on her back upon a table, wand raised towards the ceiling and firing short bursts of magic. She was muttering and cursing.

“Professor?” he enquired, and she jumped, which triggered a fresher bout of profanity.

“Severus! Look what you made me do! Now Saturn’s rings are rotating the wrong way!” She sat up on the table and glared at him.

“My apologies. Allow me,” said Snape, and Sinistra swung her legs off the table and stood aside while he muttered an incantation and cast a spell at the animated solar system displayed across the ceiling cavity.

“The rings aren’t purple. We’re not in nursery school.”

“What colour are they?”

“Well it depends. But it’s safest if you colour them a sort of dusky pink, and grey and light brown.”

He frowned at her and she returned it with a defiant lift of her chin.

“So separate rings?”

“Yes. Six distinct ones, at uneven intervals please.”

“This is a wand, Aurora, not a paintbrush.” But he attempted the task and did an adequate job of it. The rings were now also orbiting counter-clockwise.

She let her gaze drop from the ceiling to Snape and a grudging smile came to her lips. “Well you’re no Michelangelo, but its fit for purpose. I take it you have a Will for me?”

“And a way, I hope.” He held out the scroll to her.

She unravelled it and scanned the clauses quickly. Then she lowered it to look at him. “I’ll be honest – I didn’t think you’d do that.”

He cocked his head, puzzled. “Why not?”

“I didn’t think you had a high enough opinion of me. Or is this all a ploy to get the bottle?”

Snape gathered his robe behind him and straightened. “My opinion of you is sufficiently high that I trust you with my son; as Charity evidently held you in high regard, she is the best human credential any person could possibly have with respects to the care of her child. I know of none other than her parents, whom you have pointed out, are Muggles. So the decision was one of common sense rather than personal. In answer to your second question – obtaining the bottle is a means to an end. That is, the second objective will, I hope, cancel out the need for the first. I would rather not end up dead or so incapacitated that I cannot care for Servius myself.”

Sinistra listened to this wide-eyed and with a small smile. “My, Severus, you’ll need to watch that silver tongue of yours. I’m so flattered that common sense was the chief factor in your decision to appoint me Godparent.”

“As far as Servius’s future welfare is concerned, I would think you’d agree that it should be perhaps the only factor in making a sound decision. Perhaps you would rather I selected someone based on the random availability of seats on the Hogwarts Express?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Sinistra, completely confused.

“When you consider it, the nomination of Sirius Black by the Potters could be attributed to the fact that they encountered each other on the Hogwarts Express.”

She laughed out loud. “I think there was a bit more than that going on. They were friends for years.”

“Given the lack of any other obvious character strength or virtue, perhaps it rests easier with me that Black was selected – by James - on the basis of random opportunism. It reflects better on Lily that way.” But Snape was smiling, enjoying the absurdist argument. “At any rate: you would be doing me an honour if you would be Godparent to Servius and see to his care if…if I should die.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She was smiling broadly herself now, and Snape nodded once.

“Can you put this away somewhere easier to find than the Archive lockbox?” she suggested.

“My desk drawer. Obvious enough? And speaking of lockboxes…”

Without further ado, they went together from the Astronomy Tower across to the far east of the castle to the archive. When they entered, Snape had that familiar feeling of coming home, of this being a place he had once belonged. He wondered again, as he lit sconces and lamps, whether a trace of Charity somehow endured here.

Sinistra had waited until there was adequate light and until Snape had finished blasting a couple of startled, and unfortunate, mice, and then took a moment to absorb her surroundings. “Charity told me that archive project she was given took two years. She sometimes had an elf to help her and that was it. Can you imagine?”

“Two years?” repeated Snape, certain that this was something Charity would have told him herself, but she was still, yet, a mere silhouette.

“She liked it down here with you though,” she grinned. “Your little bolt-hole together during the audit. Merlin knows what you got up to.”

Snape frowned heavily. Conjecture was the extent of it, but it still felt personal and private. The fact that his own mind had jumped to the exact same speculation was neither here nor there.

Sinistra turned directly towards the cupboard doors at the western end of the room and stopped abruptly. “Oh. There’s a box on the floor – whose…?”

Snape looked to where her gaze fell and saw the same box and remembered instantly that it was his own, the night he’d opened it, the raging frustration he’d felt. The box had fallen barely in his notice, and then, literally blinded, he’d left it unattended. He quickly went to it and crouched down to retrieve it, noting with relief the lid had sealed shut again. But as he lifted it, there was an absence of weight – nothing shifted about inside.

Hastily slipping his wand into his hand he murmured “ _Cistem aperio_ ,” and tapped the box lightly. The lid appeared and he raised it, and as he’d half feared, the box was empty.

“There were – there were…books in here -,” Snape quickly glanced about him, hoping that somehow the diaries had fallen out and were simply misplaced. “Two books…”

“The box is yours?   Did you come looking for the bottle?”

“Yes. This is my box. I dropped it – there were books…” He’d risen to his feet, scanning about the floor with urgency. “Can you see them?”

Sinistra started looking about her as well. “How did you know to look in the lockboxes?”

“I didn’t. It was a hunch…I’d put these books in the boxes…”

“What kind of books?”

He was irritated having to answer her. “Diaries. Dragonhide diaries. If you see them just tell me -,”

The pair spent five minutes or more searching the entire floor space, table tops and other likely places, but there was no sign of the diaries. Sinistra helpfully said, “I don’t think they’re here, Severus.”

She, having put into words his great anxiety, compelled him to repeat the scene of earlier and he swore vehemently, except at a slightly higher pitch, a vocal measure of the intensity of his annoyance, vexation, the sense of being continuously and unrelentingly thwarted. A few moments later he remembered he was not alone, and paused, slightly out of breath, and saw Sinistra standing still and staring at him in bemusement.

“Sorry,” he uttered, but he felt outraged at the stress of it and turned his gaze once more to the box. “I just can’t believe…perhaps Diaphne?”

“I don’t know,” said Sinistra, with a reproving lift of her brow. “I’ll leave you to sort out that mystery, I have a ceiling to get back to. Shall I get you your bottle?”

“Please,” he muttered.

Finding Sinistra’s lockbox was relatively simple, it being stored in the same row as his own and only a couple of boxes along. Since he was putting his own away, he retrieved hers, and when he handed it to her she carried it over to the mahogany table, Snape standing by to watch. With her own wand, she tapped the box to reveal the lid, then her eyes lifted to meet with Snape. “Ready?”

He nodded briefly.

She raised the lid and smiled. “There it is.”

Sinistra had gone to some trouble. The bottle was lightly covered in a gauze and embedded in a cushion of silk cloth. She delicately set the gauze aside before lifting the bottle out of its little padded mausoleum and carefully handed it to Snape.

The clay bottle was still perfectly sealed, the wax as preserved as the day it had been applied twelve years earlier, and the note of instructions was still attached with string. He lifted it and read:

_These memories have been secured and will remain so for an indeterminate amount of time. The container must not be opened by any person until such time as peace reigns between wizards and Muggles, or until Severus Snape, or Charity Burbage, are deceased. Place in the lockbox of Severus Snape in the Hogwarts Archive. The box is uniquely calibrated to the wand of Severus Snape and Cistem Aperio charm._

_Aut viam inveniam aut faciam_

His thinking then had clearly been in the interests of nullifying any association between himself and Charity during wartime. This, he understood, was to protect her, unless by virtue of death, the matter was rendered moot. The reference to Muggles he couldn’t explain. _I shall either find a way or make one_ : a note for himself. It was something he said to himself often, a phrase he’d learnt as a child, to strengthen his resolve. To have written it at the time, to his future self or someone else, signalled duress, an extreme point, a path becoming increasingly difficult. It hinted that he hadn’t taken the course of action lightly or willingly.

Several moments had passed in silence while Snape meditated on the bottle and instructions, and Sinistra’s question, though softly spoken, was nevertheless jarring. “How do you view them? In a Pensieve?”

“I…?” Snape shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I presume…is there any other way?”

“I’ve never used a Pensieve,” she replied. “Do you just sort of pour the whole lot in at once? Do you sort of stick your head in and watch the memories like they’re fish in a bowl? How does it work?”

“I shall need the Hogwarts Pensieve.”

“Just remember, Severus – these aren’t memories extracted the normal way.   If you lose them somehow, they’re gone forever. I would talk to the Wicce if I were you. Do you know how to reach her?”

Snape tore his eyes away from the bottle to look at her. Her advice was sound. “Through Diaphne. I think you’re right.”

 

* * *

 

From the archive he took the bottle in both hands and carried it directly to his quarters and placed it in the storage trunk left behind from Slughorn that now held his Charity treasures. He was assiduous in separating the bottle from anything that might inadvertently break it.  He felt strangely energised with relief, with hope and with, he realised, anticipation.

From there he hurried to the Hospital Wing, and found Diaphne occupied with Madam Pomfrey in some sort of tutorial. Pomfrey acknowledged him with a sharp look, not breaking off from her teachings, but Snape could not make himself leave. He instead paced up and down at the far end of the ward, his wand tapping against his thigh when he wasn’t manoeuvring it about in his fingers absent-mindedly.

Presently he heard an irritated “Yes?” from Pomfrey, and Snape requested an audience with Diaphne.

She rose and briskly crossed the floor to him, looking cross. “What is it, Professor? I’m in a lesson.”

“I have the witch’s bottle, the memories,” he informed her. Her eyes widened at this, the anger completely dissolving away. “Professor Sinistra had them. I need to talk to the Wicce. I need to know how to restore the memories. Can you arrange a meeting with her?”

Diaphne nodded her head, a little distracted. “Yes, yes – I’ll send her a Patronus when I’m free. Don’t do anything to the bottle until you’ve consulted her. Meet me at dinner and I’ll tell you what I find out.”

“Good. Good, thank you.” He held her attention, and continued in a low voice:   “I was down in the archive to get the bottle from Professor Sinistra’s lockbox. My own – it was there, where I’d dropped it that time you came to get me. There had been books in there – they’ve gone missing. Did you pick up some books when you were down there?”

She gave a small shake of her head and frowned. “No…no, the only thing I did down there was attend to you. I don’t even know what the lockbox is.”

Frustration flared again, making him glance up above her head and glare about him for a moment while he wrestled with it.

“What kind of books?” she asked, sensitive to his moods. “Perhaps someone took them to the library?”

“No,” he muttered, “not that kind of book. It is a matter I’ll…leave it be.”

She paused, glanced back at Pomfrey and said, “In that case I’d better return to my lesson. I’ll speak to you at dinner.”

He nodded curtly, then once at Pomfrey before turning on his heel and departing.

As he was descending the main staircase intending for the dungeon, Slughorn emerged from his namesake stairs and, seeing Snape, raised his arm, partly in greeting and partly to detain him.

“There you are!” he declared. “Join me, if you might. There has been progress made on the Common Room conversion. Filius and Agatha are there in the archive now making some final adjustments.”

“I see. Lead the way.”

Moments later, Slughorn was showing Snape through the oak door he’d exited barely an hour earlier.

The extent of the conversion was astonishing. Using a combination of Flitwick’s architectural sorcery and Froggonmore’s transfiguration talents, the entire archive had been reconfigured to resemble as close as practically possible the original Slytherin Common Room. It lacked only the lake-view windows. Walls, floor and structural elements such as the fireplace, columns, archways and lintels had been replicated, and decorative elements such as rugs, sofas, chairs and other furniture had also been recreated. Here and there were serpent ornamentations and the room was lit with gas lamps and candelabras.

As Snape stood there, gazing about and vainly trying to appear phlegmatic, Froggonmore conjured a bookcase and then levitated it to stand beside the door which, in the original, would lead to the boys’ dormitory. “The books are merely decorative, I fear,” she said. “The whole room is an illusion.”

“Temporary,” added Flitwick, and with a wave of his wand and charms being incanted, he cast a spell towards the east end of the room and Snape watched as great blocks of stone that formed the wall began to move and revolve and recompose until an arched doorway materialised. Froggonmore waited until the stone was still, then transfigured some archived books into a door, which fitted itself neatly into the space Flitwick had created.

Slughorn said, “We’ve made a lot of constructive use of the things that were down here; Agatha’s turned them into other things. It will all be restored once the dungeon is safe again.”

The cupboard full of lockboxes had, predictably, vanished, and wherever Snape’s diaries were, they could not be found in the archive any longer. With a great wave of relief, he thought about his Witch’s Bottle safe in his quarters.

“You’ve done remarkable work,” Snape said truthfully, thinking it had been an unexpected opportunity to witness Froggonmore’s talents for himself. To go with her height, she had an unusually long, thin wand that had been carved to look like entwined rope. He wasn’t sure what to make of her.

“The dorms will be on the same level,” said Flitwick. “In Ravenclaw and Gryffindor the children go upstairs to bed, but even I have to acknowledge some restraints: gravity for instance. The rooms on other side of the archive have been appropriated for sleeping quarters, and they’ll be a bit snug, but as I said, it’s all temporary.”

“This will be more than adequate,” Snape allowed. “The Headmistress will be delighted. Horace, I shall leave it with you to give her a tour when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Severus. I’ll report in when it’s completed.”

At the door on his way out, Snape looked back once more. While the Slytherin Common Room had always held positive associations for him, he would be reassured when the archive was reinstated. He would miss the curious atmosphere, the serenity he found here, the inexplicable contentment.

Then he turned and left.

 

* * *

 

When the various teachers and staff who were dining at Hogwarts that evening began to move off, Snape caught Diaphne’s eye where she was seated at the diagonal opposite end of the table. He got up from his place and went to her side, pointedly ignoring Longbottom seated crosswise from her. She had risen also, and said, “Perhaps a walk, Professor?”

Snape could feel Longbottom’s eyes on him as he stepped aside and let Diaphne lead the way out of the Great Hall and into the Entrance Hall. It was barely dusk, and she said “A stroll outside? It’s not too cold yet.”

“Certainly. A pleasant evening.”

Together they wandered across the uneven paving of the courtyard to its far end. The late summer eve dazzled off the ripples from the lake below and, unseen by them, a million translucent wings of mayflies that were hatching from the surface, taking to the air, forming columns of silent, shimmery etherealness.

“Professor, I am so glad you found the Witch’s Bottle,” said Diaphne. “Professor Sinistra somehow obtained it from you?”

“Before I was even aware of its existence. She followed the instructions I had prepared before the ritual. They’ve been stored safely in the archive for these past twelve years, untouched, it would seem, even by the war.”

“My aunt said the memories should be still fresh and useable. I sent her a Patronus this afternoon and she responded almost immediately. She said we are to see her as soon as she can, that she will obtain a special Pensieve that is used for the restoration of memories permanently. She said to allow for several hours.”

Snape nodded and allowed his eyes to linger on her as she spoke. She noticed this and glanced away, then back again. “Perhaps Friday evening? Would that suit you?”

“Yes – no. No, I have, unbelievably I have a prior engagement.” As desperately as he wanted to, he couldn’t decline the dinner at Malfoy Manor this late. “It will need to be Saturday.”

“Oh, ah - it will need to be during the day,” said Diaphne. “I have…an engagement also…on Saturday evening.”

She looked down, suddenly preoccupied by the weeds growing between the pavers.

“Oh. In that case, we should make arrangements for the daytime. Do you need to be back for your…engagement…at any particular hour?”

“I would prefer to be back by five.”

Snape shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said coolly: “Well then perhaps you can let the Wicce know we will join her at midday.”

“Yes.”

Diaphne then turned her gaze to the lake and Snape perused her features. “Once term starts,” he stated, “You’ll be considered a student for all intents and purposes.”

She looked up at him, confused. “Why are you telling me that?”

“There is a strict policy around student, teacher relations.”

“But I will still be a mediwitch, a nurse for Madam Pomfrey – I’m an employee first and foremost.”

“Will it be an issue?”

A frown appeared. “What are you asking me, Professor?”

“Is your appointment on Saturday…who is it with?” He hadn’t intended it, but an edge had crept into his voice and she picked up on it.

“Why is it any concern of yours? You have told me that we are to conduct ourselves as professionals.”

“I am Deputy. I am to ensure compliance with school rules and regulations. Is it Neville Longbottom?”

“Professor, the teacher student relations policy didn’t seem to concern you a couple of weeks ago!”

Snape’s jaw ticked and heat ebbed through him at the recollection of being in her bedroom. “You weren’t enrolled then. So it is. Professor Longbottom – taking you to dinner is he?”

Scarlet suffused her cheeks. “I think this conversation is over, Professor.”

“And Slughorn’s retirement function…is he taking you to that?”

Her eyes flashed. She didn’t reply but she didn’t deny it either. Snape’s heart thumped hard.

“I will speak to him,” he said, perfunctory, and turned to leave. “He’s out of line.”

“No - ,” said Diaphne impulsively, and reached out to hold his arm. “Please, Professor. He has been very kind to me. I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

“Well I am assuming nothing has yet happened? There is no breach?”

“No, no nothing. Saturday was to be…”

“In that case, a quite caution should be enough.” Once more Snape prepared to leave and again, Diaphne held his arm.

“Let me talk to him,” she said. “Please let me explain it to him. I am a grown woman.”

Snape had rather relished the idea of puncturing Neville Longbottom’s little balloon of amorous arrogance but he relented.

“Very well. As you wish. You must invite him to see me personally if he objects.”

And Snape had every expectation that Longbottom would.

 

* * *

 

Friday had been cloudy, and as the last days of summer drew to a close, the sun stood high and seemed to pulse an exhausted heat as if emptying itself. The hills surrounding Hogwarts now had a burnished appearance, the tips of the grass crisped, the bracken dried and withered. As Snape descended the path from the castle to the gates that evening, the moon hanging impotently in an indigo sky, he felt rather than saw the movement of creatures and beings in the Forbidden Forest, venturing out of their cool enclave to drink at the lake, or crop the greener grass on the verge.

He Disapparated to Malfoy Manor in something of a mood. The visit with the Malfoys had played on his mind all day and he rather regretted having accepted the invitation. As he had unpacked his delivery of potion ingredients and stored them away, the normal pleasure he derived from this task was sullied by thoughts and presumptions about what the occasion could possibly signify.

His point of Apparition was outside the gates of the Manor and, expecting him, they opened as he approached. It was still a grand pile: whatever condition the Malfoy’s themselves had been in at the end of the war, their abode projected the pride, wealth and status the name was known for. The lawns, hedges, fountains – beautifully maintained. Crunching his way up the gravel drive, Snape couldn’t help a flicker of envy, the modest accumulations in his own Will still smarting a little, and he wondered at the motivations of Malfoy being so prepared to risk it all in his associations with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. His belief must have been so powerful that he had imagined victory would bring him more spoils, yet Snape’s assessment was that under a reign of Voldemort, the Malfoys were far more likely to lose it all. A totalitarian regime was rarely shared.

Something had announced his arrival. The double front doors were opened and, backlit by the bright interior, stood Narcissa. “Severus,” she said with a wide smile. She was wearing a form-fitting, floor-length white gown, a complex Celtic-design necklace, and her hair was pinned up in an elegant knot. She reached out her arms and coolly embraced him with a continental kiss to each cheek, then took his cloak. “It is wonderful to see you, so wonderful that you are alive and well. Come in, come in – Lucius is just on his way down. I know Draco would have wanted to be here but he’s away with..with Astoria. You know you missed their wedding?”

“Draco is married?!” retorted Snape, stunned. It perhaps reflected on Snape’s latent paternal instincts towards Draco that that this news had surprised him in ways it hadn’t with Potter. In his head, the blond-haired boy was forever fourteen, even when he’d been older, shoved into maturity, Snape had difficulty moving that waypoint in his head. Over the many years of association with the Malfoys, he’d watched Draco grow from a babe in arms, been there closely during his adolescence, and then – crashingly, behind his back – he’d become a married adult.

“About to bring their first into the world,” said Narcissa. “Astoria is in her last month. She’s not been very well and so she and Draco are staying with her parents for a few weeks.”

Snape dumbly processed this staggering information as he followed Narcissa through into the foyer which had been tiled with white marble, as was the staircase, and all the walls had been painted white. An enormous, bright chandelier that must have held two-hundred candles was suspended from the ceiling. Snape allowed his eyes to wander, trying to match in his head what he was now seeing and his memories of the Manor during his youth and the war. He may as well have entered a completely different building. While the fundamental layout was the same, the place had been utterly redecorated.

“Severus!” came an exclamation from the upper landing, and looking up he saw Lucius. Clean shaven, his long platinum hair pulled back, Lucius was dressed all in white as well, including shoes. He hastened down the stairs, looking, Snape observed, full of vigour, and when he reached the floor he also pulled Snape into a brief, back-slapping hug.

“Look at you!” said Lucius, standing back to scan him up and down. “You are the same. What’s this – some grey? That is the trouble with black, Severus, it shows the grey. Ah, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you survived.” A wide grin revealed perfectly white teeth against the tanned skin.

“Lucius – you seem…extraordinarily well.” Snape was stunned, bewildered. He hadn’t been sure to expect, but this was not amongst the scenarios he’d imagined. Was Lucius wearing some kind of cheesecloth smock? Did becoming a grandparent do this?

“I am completely vegetarian now,” Lucius stated, and patted his stomach that was, for a man of his age, remarkably flat.

Narcissa glided over – she’d always had incredible grace. She had put his cloak away somewhere and now brought three glasses of champagne in crystal glasses. “Before anything else, Severus,” she said, “A toast to your incredible endurance, your health and your longevity. We’re delighted you could join us.”

“Thank you for having me,” said Snape demurely and raised his glass along with theirs, rapidly re-setting antecedents in his head. “And to your health too. And your amazing news - congratulations.”

Lucius laughed aloud. “Ah, the baby, yes,” and ushered him through to the sumptuous sitting room, in the opposite direction of the drawing room. Snape was relieved. He hadn’t been sure what he would have done if there’d been an expectation of sitting at the dining table.

The lounge was also completely white. From the shag-pile carpet to the heavy brocade drapes, to the domed ceiling, everything was in shades and layers of white, ivory and silver or glass. The only colour in the room was the fire that had been lit in the 6-foot marble fireplace. Snape worried about tracking anything in on his boots and discreetly checked his footsteps on the dense carpet.

“Make yourself comfortable Severus,” said Narcissa, indicating one of the wide, white upholstered armchairs. Then she took his glass and disappeared again while Lucius took a seat in the armchair opposite.

“Was it a surprise to get my letter?” Lucius asked, still smiling. “Did you think I would have cut ties with you after learning what you did?”

“Very much so. I admit, I wasn’t sure where my stocks were with you after…after my duties in the war were publicly revealed. I didn’t presume to think that you had denounced your own loyalties.”

Lucius laughed again. “Thought we’d cut you loose? I admit, during the campaign it crossed my mind several times whether you were…what you said you were. They knew too much. _You_ knew too much. Bellatrix suspected you outright. I admit, I vacillated. I thought it would be impossible for the Lord not to know if there were an agent in his midst. Merlin, how did you manage it Severus?”

“It took a great toll.”

“But…you did things…there must have been some part of you that was…going along with it?”

Snape frowned a little at the dubious truth of the question. “I couldn’t afford to have a true north. I had to navigate using a constellation of way-points. Some sacrifices were necessary. Some compromises had to be accepted. Almost every decision had ramifications for one side or another.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, and then smiled at his wife as Narcissa had re-entered and handed out topped up champagne glasses before seating herself on the very end of a six-seater sofa. She listened quietly.

“I’m sorry to launch into the subject so crudely, I apologise Severus, that’s no way to treat a guest,” said Lucius, relaxing into his seat. “And yet…I hope you understand…to pretend otherwise would have been false pretence. You understand? I couldn’t very well sit opposite you – the first Death Eater to cross the threshold in almost a decade – and make chit chat about the weather.”

Snape nodded stiffly and took quite a long drink of the champagne. He was perched on the edge of the chair and felt unaccountably nervous – the Lucius of old was in there somewhere, but right now, he was talking to a virtual stranger.

“The last time I saw you,” continued Lucius, “was in the middle of the battle. The Dark Lord wanted you, I saw you striding off towards – I don’t know I presume the Shrieking Shack – next thing I hear is that you’re dead. The whole time - wasn’t it Cissy? - so-and-so’s down, Dolohov’s dead, Avery’s dead. Then Bellatrix. We couldn’t find Draco until…until Cissy found out. But -,” he had turned inward, and then he paused and lifted his eyes to Snape, frowning. “But then, somehow you survived…? How? The others said there was blood all over the Shack. Mulciber said the Dark Lord had fed you to Nagini – the rumours afterwards, so many rumours. Indulge us with the truth, Severus, or we shall have to slip some _veritaserum_ into your champagne!” He laughed again, and Snape felt Narcissa’s eyes boring into him. When he glanced at her, she wasn’t smiling.

“Uh -,” said Snape, wondering if he was meant to lean up against the fireplace and tell the story like a raconteur while swirling a brandy. “I was rescued - ,”

“By _who?_ ”

“That’s confidential.”

“A Death Eater?”

“No.”

“Not Harry Potter?”

“No. No, not Potter.”

“Oh thank Merlin, that was one of the rumours. After the war, he insisted so hard that you had died some people started to wonder. It was that either he’d killed you himself believing you to be a traitor – or had rescued you, which was the version I was inclined to believe.   What _I_ thought was that you struck a bargain with the Lord and faked your death, then did a runner. So which was it?”

“None of the above. The Dark Lord intended to kill me using Nagini, but I was rescued by persons I can’t name.”

Narcissa looked horrified. “Did he try to feed you to that snake?”

Charity flashed into Snape’s mind, the way Nagini had curled around the torso.

“No..no..the venom...”

“But if he wanted to murder you, why not just the Killing Curse?” asked Lucius.

“I don’t know,” said Snape, all but sighing.

“Was it about that _fucking_ wand?” asked Lucius suddenly, his face hard like carved alabaster. Narcissa jumped a little, and then shut her eyes, pained.

Snape’s eyes widened a fraction. He had seen Lucius under some intense, dire situations but honestly couldn’t recall the man ever using profanity.

“He was _obsessed_ ,” spat Lucius, and glared at the glass-topped white-stone coffee table. “I’m not sure I buy that Deathly Hallows nonsense even now.”

Narcissa nodded at this and murmured a footnote: “Dray-Dray never liked those stories as a child.”

“About seventy-thousand theories were circulating about those fucking wands, including Draco’s, and in the end I put down the paper – didn’t I darling? – and said: I don’t want another word about it in this house! We gave enough! Get Draco a new wand, get us _all_ new wands and we will start afresh.” He paused reflectively.  “It wasn’t a very pleasant experience in Ollivanders, was it Cissy?”

Narcissa had turned to Lucius and placed a soothing hand on the side of his face. She looked into his eyes. “My darling, have you had…?”

“Yes. Yes,” he hissed irritably to her. “The whole lot at two o’clock. I’m fine.”

Snape frowned, more to himself, and murmured, “I don’t dwell on it too much…”

“Quite a few of the old regiment showed up here years after the battle,” said Lucius, and Narcissa nodded.   “The injured, the ones on the run. They knew you were after them. They didn’t know that I’d talked like a drugged parrot, or that Cissy lied to the Lord.” Then he laughed again, and this time Snape saw that the humour didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The names they called you brought a blush to my cheeks, I’ll be honest. We gave them Polyjuice potion and money and sent them on their way. If they stayed on the grounds I’d pretend not to know about it. But I didn’t want them in the house anymore.”

“We were mourning,” added Narcissa. “We sustained losses. And Delphini was here, very young.”

Snape listened and nodded but did not speak. Much of this was news to him and he was beginning to find the situation uncomfortable. Old instincts were rising up, old covers and personas seemed to come lurking out from shut-away places, masks he had needed to wear. He didn’t want to know about Delphini, the very prospect of her made him want to gag.

Lucius was quiet and studied him a moment and appeared to sense Snape’s discomfort for he said with disconcerting levity, “There is plenty of time to ponder over those old ghosts. The important thing is that we are all here now and that much water has gone beneath that bridge of continuance. Severus, I want you to feel comfortable here. I think we’ve known each other long enough, and we’ve all made choices, and we all have crosses to bear. But we’ve heralded a new era, here, and I for one am doing my best to forgive and forget, as per the teachings of Osen.”

Snape was reeling. “Er…quite…” he scanned his mind for the name Osen and drew a blank.

“Champagne!” said Narcissa, with her wide smile, and once more stood to collect their glasses. Snape obediently gave her his, and then watched in shock as she took all three and smashed the lot into the firebox. The fire itself flared and spat. Even Lucius seemed surprised. “It’s symbolic,” she explained to the wordless men. “New glasses, new beginnings.”

Lucius glanced at Snape then barked out his laugh. “Lovely, Cissy, I approve. In fact, bring out our best – the diamond ones, you know the ones.”

Narcissa glided away and Lucius turned back to Snape, grinning. “I have been blessed with Cissy.” He paused. “Draco…”

“How is he?” asked Snape.

The cool eyes went midfield again. “Oh, well enough. Taller than me! I’m sure he’ll make a good father.”

Snape wanted to know about Draco’s wellbeing. The boy had seen things unfit for a child, carried a terrible burden, endured much from Lucius… but he didn’t know how to ask. He remembered Draco’s face clearly up at the Astronomy Tower, an amalgam of fear, bravado and triumph – until Snape had appeared. And then the eyes turned dark, and resentment burned there. He hadn’t had time to deal with Draco’s spite – he had the Headmaster’s life to end, and then had to get the boy, Greyback and the others out of the castle as fast as possible: to save and be saved, to protect and defend. Draco had yet enough youth and innocence that the strain of unfolding events showed on his features, though he walked with the purpose of a man who knows he has to leave. Snape had followed behind, down the stairs and through the corridors, as cold and hard as the stone around him. A terrible passage.

“Fatherhood will be a stabilising influence on him I imagine..”

“Draco? I suppose you mean compared to Potter?”

“Uh…no…” Snape wasn’t sure where that comment had come from. Malfoy had perhaps concluded that since Snape had settled his loyalties with Dumbledore, this meant, by extension, to Potter, in spite of the years Snape had dedicated to Draco’s welfare.

“It will be good for him to be…occupied.”

“Narcissa said he married – was it Astoria? One of the Greengrass sisters?”

“Yes. Astoria Greengrass.” Lucius’s expression was fixed, and the flinty blue eyes had gone blank.

Snape cleared his throat, and into the awkward silence Narcissa reappeared, this time bearing a silver tray, atop which was borne three filled champagne glasses with precision cut stems. She handed the tray first to Snape, who took a glass, then Lucius and then setting the tray down she resumed her place on the sofa, holding aloft her flute. “I really shouldn’t,” said Lucius with a hollow laugh. “Not good for the diet. But thank you my darling. Take a look, Severus – the stems are cut diamond. I never served these to the Dark Lord – just as well, he probably would have turned them into horcruxes, ha ha!”

It was ghastly. Every time Lucius made a slight about Voldemort, Snape impulsively flinched.

“A toast!” declared Narcissa. “New beginnings!” They each raised their glasses then Snape watched as Narcissa downed hers in one draught. He hastily took a drink of his own before they noticed.

As he swallowed an acidic, fizzy gulp he waved his hand around the room and strangled out: “You’ve really…changed the place. It’s so…clean.”

“Ah. I think you mean white. It’s very white,” said Narcissa following Snape’s eyes. She looked anything but impressed with it.

“Pure,” remarked Lucius. “It’s calming.”

There were a scattering of family photos on the mantelpiece, but the artwork the manor had been famous for seemed to have disappeared. “Where are all the portraits?”

“Toxic Black crap,” said Lucius bitterly, and Narcissa looked away and scowled – which for her comprised the merest of creases between her brows. “We’ve put them away and closed off several wings. The place is so large with just the two of us. Oh, and the elves of course. Mustn’t forget them. Free and all that.”

“Mmm,” said Snape around a mouthful of champagne. “I’ve had dealings with the elves at Hogwarts.”

Naming the school seemed to bring Lucius out of a wallow. He smiled widely again and said, “Hogwarts! How is the old place? You know, I refuse to donate anything while that arse Byron is Chair, but as soon as he’s gone – in fact, do you think I should run again?”

Out of respect to McGonagall, Snape needed to deflect this as best he could. “Uh, well I’ve been away, Lucius, but from what I’ve heard, the Ministry is very much changed - ,”

“That’s the understatement of the century, isn’t it Cissy!” retorted Lucius, almost gaily. “I’ve been blacklisted of course, and Shacklebolt just does whatever Potter tells him.”

“Or the Granger girl,” added Narcissa. “Draco would describe to us what she was like when they were at school. I know it’s safe to say it to you, Severus, but I would go so far as to say she was a bit of a bully.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. This was new, and ironic, coming from a Malfoy. “Well she struck Draco, of course. We didn’t know about it at the time or I would have come to the school, mark my words. Assault is still assault, doesn’t matter if it’s a girl or a boy doing the hitting. And she was always insisting on doing things her way, and she would badger until she got it. She still does. You can’t say it out loud these days of course, her being a mud - her being Muggle-born, and the whole Ministry has just bent over backwards for them.” She looked at her empty glass forlornly.

“She, uh, she certainly knew her own mind,” replied Snape diplomatically.

“I heard,” said Lucius, more to Narcissa, “that when the Longbottom boy left the Aura office, there were over four-hundred applications. Can you believe it! There must have been some Muggles among them!”

“Four hundred? That can’t be right…” murmured Narcissa.

“It’s just zealots wanting to work with Potter,” said Lucius, with a downturned mouth. “I don’t understand the appeal myself. I always thought he was a bit wet. An odd combination, isn’t it? Spineless combined with the ego of the century.”

Snape thought back to the Potter he’d had lunch with. He didn’t think either word described the man he’d met. “McGonagall told me that there was a fiendfyre during the battle -,”

“Well, they do say that the meek will inherit, don’t they,” continued Lucius determinedly, Draco’s rescue either ignored or embargoed. “Draco told us how you would try to keep Potter’s rampant vanity under control. I’ll never forget how he challenged me outside Dumbledore’s office about the blasted elf.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Oh don’t go there again, darling.”

“Dobby was a pest the minute he set foot in this house!” Lucius snarled, and then quickly glanced towards the doors on the alert, Snape presumed, for their current house elves. “One of the worst elves that ever worked here, and I can tell you, we’ve been through a few. Incompetent! Every day I had to think of some kind of punishment – thank Merlin he started doing them to himself.”

“Darling,” said Narcissa consolingly, “whatever your opinion, he’s dead now -,”

“And don’t we all know it! Made a hero! A symbol! His greatest talent was making a bloody nuisance of himself. He attacked me! Down the stairs!” He set his jaw, then added under his breath contemptuously: “The current lot all have attitudes a mile-wide because of him.”

“You never mentioned that he saved Potter,” said Snape. “When I was Headmaster.”

“Shameful episode,” murmured Lucius shaking his head and Narcissa looked equally downcast. “I could barely walk for a week, could I Cissy, after the Lord shared his displeasure. If Bella hadn’t got him, I think I would have fought the Lord himself to get my hands around his scrawny elf throat.” He drained his glass. “Still, probably all for the best. Got Ollivander and the Lovegood girl out of the cellar – I loathed having the prisoners down there.”

“And that awful Pettigrew,” said Narcissa. “There was something wrong with him.”

Snape was beginning to form the impression that the Malfoys didn’t much like anyone. He was possibly one of the few they could count on one hand. Indeed, the conversation seemed to have carried on perfectly well without him, and he had the strong sensation that this pair had had variations on this theme many times before.

A bell tinkled and Narcissa sat upright. “Ah. Dinner’s ready. We’ll just eat in the round dining room if that’s alright Severus? The Drawing Room takes hours to warm.”

In contrast to the number of suppers Snape had eaten off an aluminium tray in his lap, a choice of dining rooms was certainly no object. They proceeded through another door off the lounge, along a short white corridor, and into a room that must have been a converted turret for it was circular, and in the middle was a round dining table, which was glass-topped and reinforced with silver. The chairs were draped with white covers, and the walls above the wood panelling were painted a cream colour. The white drapes were tied back to reveal the lattice windows behind which overlooked the expanse of gravel drive, lawns and topiary gardens. The room was still lit with a candle chandelier, but smaller, and gave a more intimate lighting.

On a French whitewashed sideboard was a large, minimalist white vase which supported an enormous bouquet of lilies, the scent of which was almost overpowering in the room. Surely a coincidence?

Lucius held out a chair for Narcissa, and once she was seated, Snape also sat but Lucius said, “Forgive me a moment, I just want to visit the cellar.” Then he laughed again and said, “For wine! Not prisoners, ha ha. Just for wine…” then he wandered away.

The minute they were alone, Narcissa reached across the table for Snape’s hand, which he offered uncomfortably, but she seemed quite desperate all of a sudden. “Severus, please be…be patient with him. He’s…he hasn’t been himself for some years. After the war there was more time in Azkaban – not long, only seven weeks while the trials were underway but – I think that was it for him. He came out…defeated in so many ways. They interrogated Draco, stripped him, held him in a cell in isolation for days, I was beside myself. We almost didn’t make it.” Tears stood in her eyes, and she glanced at the door, fidgeting with her other hand.

“Please, Narcissa – whatever it is, have I not helped you in the past? I can do so again.”

“I wanted you to come tonight because Lucius needs…a friend, someone he can relate to. The others are dead or locked up, they don’t trust each other now. And he -,” her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard and Snape panicked a little, thinking Lucius would walk in and find them holding hands and she crying…

But Narcissa pulled herself together and dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “He is trying so hard to change. We went…we went to France for a year, and then he heard about a man, a wizard in Greece, one of the islands…there were some ruins on the island that they were restoring, just volunteers, Lucius wanted to go…you know how he loves antiques, collectibles….”

Narcissa leaned back just as the door opened and Lucius stepped through, carrying no less than three bottles of wine, “Here we are,” he said, and stopped short, staring. Snape’s eyes widened, about to prepare for the worst, when Lucius said, “Still no food? Outrageous! Severus, my sincere apologies – I’ll be back in less than a minute!” He placed the wine on the sideboard then left again.

Narcissa stood and went to a drawer on the sideboard from which she took out a corkscrew and commenced spiralling it into the nearest bottle’s cork. Snape noticed the fine collection of dust on one side of the bottle – clearly Lucius had selected something decently aged. Narcissa expertly withdrew the cork and continued her story as she did so.

“We went to this island, in the Cyclades group, the name of it was Eriopis and it was tiny, private, you could walk the perimeter in a day almost. Beautiful beaches, deserted. It was apparently a burial place of some ancient Greek wizard. There was this little settlement on the island of volunteers working on this ruin, led by the man. His name was Osen Etgisi. I don’t know if that’s his real name. Severus, I didn’t trust him.”

She poured him a glass of Hermitage syrah, then an enormous one for herself. At that moment, Lucius reappeared and behind him an elf carrying a tray of plates, behind him another elf with a massive porcelain tureen, and a third carrying a hammered silver bowl full of steaming mixed vegetables. The food was swiftly placed on the table by the elves as Lucius re-seated and began unfolding his linen napkin. “That looks delicious,” said Lucius. “Do you mind if it’s vegetarian, Severus? I occasionally eat some white fish, but otherwise we haven’t had meat in…how long now, Cissy?”

The elves melted away as Narcissa dismissed them, preferring to serve herself. “Well since we went to Eriopsis, darling. I was just telling Severus about it.”

“Well then that must be six or seven years, Papus save us, it doesn’t seem that long. I allow a bit of meat on the menu when Draco comes home because he does insist on it.”

Snape was in fact very hungry and while he could have happily sunk his teeth into a rare steak, the food before him was gratefully received. Even the mound of vegetables, which jarred with the lovely syrah, but he wasn’t going to be fussy.

There was a lapse in conversation as the three concentrated on eating for a minute or two, then Snape said to Lucius, “Narcissa was telling me about your time in Greece.”

“Eriopsis, yes,” Lucius enthused. “What an amazing experience. I am intending to return next year. Perhaps you could join me Severus? Draco refuses to come and I don’t think I could convince Cissy again. It will change your life, it really will.”

“They must be close to finishing the restoration now, darling?” asked Narcissa, with a slightly strained pitch to her voice.

“Osen thinks one or two more years. They’re so short of funds. Merlin knows what happens to the money I send – I’m sure those corrupt officials at the border are taking it. Osen sent me a Patronus, did I tell you Cissy?”

“No dear.”

“Indeed; he said they had a volunteer who deserted during the night taking the money box with him. They just don’t appreciate what Osen’s trying to do.”

Narcissa lifted her eyes to Snape’s and held them while Lucius continued earnestly.

“Such terrible luck. Apparently before that, the owl showed up but the package with the money in it was gone.”

“I spent a great deal of time in Europe after the war. I’m not sure I came across the name of Osen Etgisi,” murmured Snape, being careful to omit his scepticism. “What kind of wizard is he?”

“He doesn’t like to mix with traditional wizarding communities,” said Lucius matter-of-factly. “He’s self-styled. Pureblood. He describes himself as a classicist which, I think you’ll agree, is a lovely, evocative term. I think you’d like him, Severus.”

“Why do you think that?”

“A freethinker. Revisionist.” Then Lucius laughed his odd laugh and said, “But you’d have to lose that old clobber. Only white on Eriopsis. Cleansing, d’you see? Like the stone in Greece. And no meat is allowed on the island. And you have to give Osen your wand while you’re there: a wand should not be a weapon.”

Narcissa’s eyes had widened meaningfully and Snape gave her a tiny nod. “Well I’m always open to ideas, Lucius, but I’m afraid my ability to travel is about to be curtailed.”

Lucius was spearing food onto his fork and didn’t look up. “Back at work you mean?”

“Yes…and…other developments.”

Narcissa gasped and stared at him. “You’ve met someone?! Oh no, you’re not married?!”

Lucius also looked shocked and sat back in his chair.

“No, not married,” said Snape, and Lucius declared:

“Well I should think not! Not without inviting us to the wedding!”

Snape cleared his throat. “The fact of the matter is: I have a son.”

Abrupt silence. Narcissa and Lucius stared at him, then looked at each other, then stared at him again. Finally Narcissa said, “A son? A child? A real one?”

“Cissy!”

“His name is Servius. He starts Hogwarts in a week.”

“He’s _eleven?!_ ”

“I was unaware of him until I came back from…until I came back.”

Lucius’s mouth was agape, but then he stood up abruptly and leaned across the table with his hand extended. “Congratulations! Smashing!” He pumped Snape’s arm. “I’m delighted for you. Having Draco gave everything purpose -,”

“Really?” said Narcissa smartly, turning to him. “You seemed to forget that when you were on Eriopsis.”

“He’s a grown man now, Cissy, with his own life. Severus’s journey is just beginning. Tell us! Tell us all about him.”

And so for the next half hour Snape described Servius to them: the first meeting him, the trip to Diagon Alley, his wand and owl and the sneezing hex. The part he refused to elaborate on, despite hints and prompts and pleading, was Charity. If any reference were necessary, he simply called her Servius’s mother, and that she had died. Narcissa’s eyes narrowed at any mention of the female responsible for bringing Servius into the world, burning with that curiosity that women have for gossip, particularly when a long-standing bachelor has been conquered. It seemed to incense her only further that Snape was obtuse to the point of protective about her, for she deduced from this that Servius was not necessarily accidental - her first and immediate presumption. Snape could almost see the ticker-tape of possible women being scanned through her head, and a most unsatisfying line being crossed though each of them.

“Is she the same person who rescued you in the Shrieking Shack?” she asked, and when Snape shook her head, she murmured, “So many secrets, Severus.”

His primary reason for safeguarding her name was to avoid the inevitable path it would lead to: the events that had occurred in this very building only metres away, her imprisonment only metres below them, and the fact that he had, apart from her death, no memories of her. It was simply too much at this meeting, which had – save for a slight inebriation – overwhelmed him.

What he wasn’t sure of was whether Draco had mentioned anything to them. Potter and his friends had evidently uncovered the relationship, there was no reason why Draco shouldn’t – in fact, the disgruntled, neglected Slytherins had perhaps more than any other group questioned what had distracted their Head of House so unpredictably during that time. If Draco had communicated anything back to his parents, he expected that now would be the time when it was raised.

His narrative carried them through a sorbet dessert and then chocolate, cheese and brandy back in the lounge, and then a choice selection of stories from Narcissa and Lucius about Draco’s first years at Hogwarts and what Snape could look forward to. But there was no mention of Charity.

By the time Snape was just starting to slur his words and become drowsy before the fire, Narcissa swayed a little in her seat (Snape estimated that Narcissa had drunk at least one bottle of wine herself, not including the champagne) and said, “My darling Severus, we are having a gathering over Christmas – you must come with Servius.”

Snape started to shake his head, but she landed her hand firmly down on the seat beside her. “Don’t argue with me, young man. We can’t have him spend Christmas in that gloomy castle. Come to the Manor – you’ll virtually have a wing to yourself. Christmas is so much better with children about.”

“Hear, hear,” said Lucius, upending the last of a Bordeaux. “Draco will be here with Astoria and the baby, and I expect he and Servius will have a hundred Slytherin stories to share. I simply insist, Severus.”

“I was going to take him to Cokeworth -,”

“Oh – _why?_ ” said Narcissa, too tipsy to remember her manners. “Come to ours! Servius can use the Quidditch pitch and there’s sledding and the woods has all Draco’s old forts and treehouses. Draco will look after him, I imagine he’ll do anything to get out of nappy duty.”

“Perhaps we could drop by for lunch one day -,”

“No. Stay. Stay for a week. Including Christmas Day. We’ll show Servius what a wizarding Christmas is like.”

“I insist, Severus,” said Lucius, but he was quite drunk and rubbing his eyes.

“I promise I’ll think about it,” said Snape, feeling the beginnings of some heartburn. All the rich sauces that had dressed the vegetarian food did not agree with him, apparently. “I should go, I’ve kept you late.”

“Ohhh, really?” said Narcissa, sounding almost like a teenager and Snape found himself smiling.

“Thank you, dinner was marvellous.”

“You are welcome any time at all,” said Lucius, rising. His expression had turned rather brooding and his ice-chip eyes no longer sparked with good cheer. He opened the door through to the foyer and Snape followed him through. Narcissa then came behind, having collected his cloak from somewhere.

“So it’s settled,” said Narcissa. “I’ll send an owl with all the details.” As Lucius wandered off towards the front doors, she sought Snape’s eyes and said quietly for his ears only, “You’d be doing me a huge favour.”

It was probably the wine, he thought later, but caught up as he was in the earnestness of her eyes, her slightly dishevelled hair, a sudden waft of her perfume, he found himself nodding dumbly. He remembered, as if yesterday, being in this manor not far from where he now stood, when she had descended the stairs so elegantly, holding in her arms the swaddled Draco. Lucius had stood at the foot of the stairs, beside his father Abraxas, and his pride was palpable, his chest visibly swelled at the sight of them. Snape, then still dreadfully wet behind the ears, had stared and wondered. Wondered if he’d ever be in the same position one day. Had Charity swaddled Servius like that?

An extremely uncomfortable trip back to the castle later (how many times had Snape told himself not to drink and Apparate?) and a swagger up the path from the gates to the front doors, Snape decided that, on the whole, the evening had been odd, but not bad. He realised, belatedly, that he had enjoyed telling them about Servius, enjoyed the extemporary conversational gate that he’d been permitted through, that of parenthood, the laughter and eye-rolling and groans that accompanied the awful pre-teen behaviour, even Lucius’s little tip: “Look at him while he’s sleeping. However monstrous he’s been all day, visit him when he’s asleep and he’ll be an angel. An absolute black-haired angel, I guarantee it.”

As Snape drew up the covers of his bed, his head still whirling but the oblivion of sleep like an irresistible vortex, he thought of Servius, at home on his own pillow, like a black-haired angel.


	14. The Pensieve

The Witch’s Bottle, brimming as it did with its priceless riches, was to be held by hand.  Snape would not entrust it to any other form of transport or hold.  At the appointed time, he stood outside the gates of Hogwarts, bearing it in two hands as though one of the Three Wise Men about to bestow gifts upon the holy infant, squinting up the path to Hogsmeade in the short-shadowed light of a monochromatic sky. 

She was late.

It was not as if it had been easy for him to be here.  His delayed emergence from his rooms gave rise to an assault course of chores, tasks and obstacles to be managed before he was at liberty to take leave, and so it was with a fresh resolve that he had greeted the most important matter requiring his undivided attention since meeting Servius.  Today he got his memories back.  And he was going to the infirmary with or without Diaphne.

 He did not strictly need her as chaperone, but there was protocol and etiquette to be considered.  The Wicce had been decent to him, he didn’t want to snub the sorceress’s favourite niece right before extending along yet more obscure branches of dark magic.    Even if her favourite niece had done some snubbing of her own.

A lone raven in the canopy at the edge of the Forest cawed piercingly, which Snape took to be a sign.  The Wicce’s Patronus was a raven.  He had brought forth the image of the infirmary’s front entrance to mind, preparing to Disapparate with deliberation, when he spied the figure of Diaphne hurrying along the path from Hogsmeade.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she panted, coming to his side.  “The Coven – detained – sorry.”

She was in her day clothes, her weekend attire of a bodice-top and skirts, her auburn hair loose.  She attempted an apologetic smile and wiped a hand across her forehead.  Snape did not return the smile.  “Sidealong?” he inquired his cool voice that often induced an entire classroom to hush.

Her smile faltered and she nodded, putting a hand lightly on his arm.

Moments later they arrived at the lighthouse infirmary.  Here, the clouds were distant and the sky was deep blue, the air redolent with brine, the roar of the ocean crashing against the rocks shot through with the cries of drifting seagulls.  It was altogether too bright and blinding for Snape; he hastened inside to the gloom leaving Diaphne outside to breathe in the sea air.

“Professor,” he heard immediately.  The Wicce, no-nonsense, was waiting in the parlour.  She wore a black scarf around her iron-grey hair, and strange, primitive markings had been daubed onto her forehead, slightly crinkled by the lines there.  “Is Diaphne outside?”

“Yes.”

“Is she qualified as a Healer yet?”

He shook his head slightly, wondering if the Wicce had ever attended a conventional school herself and decided it was unlikely.  “No, Wicce, she won’t be finished her education until July next year.”

The Wicce snorted her derision.  “She won’t need that long.  She knows what she needs to know.”

“You may well be right.”

“She can join us when she’s ready.  Come with me.  There is the Bottle – you have it; good.  I have a relaxant for you.”

They walked through the halls of the infirmary, passing members of the Wicce’s nursing staff who were busy attending to the handful of patients.  They smiled and nodded at Snape as they walked by – some he remembered, most were strangers to him.

The faint wails and howls of the madmen could be heard in their cloistered, wayward rooms and Snape felt a chill, a lurking fate that followed him with its eyes like a Grim.  He hugged the Witch’s Bottle to him.

Following her hulking form, Snape took the creaky stairs to the Wicce’s consultation rooms, his nostrils filled with the peculiar and yet familiar smells of potions brewing, of ingredients preserving and linen being poached with herbs.  The upper landing of the infirmary was almost devoid of windows, and the primary source of light came from candle sconces along the walls.  They went into her rooms and she shut the door, then she turned to him and held out her hand.

“May I have the bottle, Professor.”  It wasn’t a question. He tentatively passed it to her.

“The young lady, the teacher at your ritual – Diaphne told me she had put it away for you?”

“Yes.  It was perfectly safe the whole time. I just didn’t know where.”

She looked the bottle over, inspected the wax seal.  “Despite all my cautions and advice to the people who request the _Memoriam Delens_ , none have ever returned to me asking for the memories to be restored.  So you are my first, Professor Snape.  I have been practising witchcraft for eighty-four years, and today I learn something new.”

Snape’s mind flashed to the madmen.  “I see.  Are you…quite certain…?”

“That I know what I’m doing?” she gave him a scathing look that was softened with some humour.  “You are a mere pup, Professor.  Insolent.”

He stilled his tongue.  It had only been anxiety that had prompted the question, he’d seen enough of the Wicce’s art to know she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Dumbledore and Voldemort.  Just in the shadows.

“Sit.  In this chair.”

He took one of the leather consultation chairs while she placed the bottle on her desk, and then she brought him another.  This was one of brown glass, and a small, tin cup was sitting over the bottle’s neck.  “This is a relaxant.  Please consume the entire amount.  I will fetch the Pensieve.”

Snape had no recollection of consuming this same potion twelve years ago in the dingy room of the Hog’s Head Inn.  And yet – as he performed the same exact series of tests on the potion out of professional intrigue – there was a hint of familiarity, as though his senses could remember what his memory could not. 

And once again, as he waited and the relaxant snuck through his veins taking a blithe, calming hold, he was impressed with the potion, until, after a short while, he was too drugged to care.

Then the Wicce returned, using the _Mobiliarbus_ charm to levitate the Pensieve into her consultation room.   It was testament to the strength of her magic as the Pensieve was a stone vessel on a pedestal that must have stood three foot, and was roughly hewn out of a sole, solid piece of green marble.  It was not decorated like the Hogwarts Pensieve, and neither was it basin shaped, but was reminiscent of an enormous goblet, perhaps emancipated from a mountain by a giant as a single stone.  The floor shuddered when she placed it down.

A quick glance at Snape told the Wicce he was under the effects of her potion, the rather inane smile being distinctly out of character for him.  She withdrew some spectacles from inside her robe and put them on.

“Professor, I need you to follow my instructions so please nod if you understand me.  Have you used a Pensieve before?”

Snape nodded.

“So the disorientation will be familiar.  However this one works slightly differently.  You are going to enter the Pensieve.  You will be in there alone.  I will deposit memories from the bottle into the Pensieve and the memories will materialise before you.  You will _re-live_ the memory, not observe it, and so as it is occurring it will be as if it is happening for the first time.  Are you following?”

Snape nodded.

“The events will unfold as they did in your memory when we extracted them.  But you cannot change them, your brain’s memory pathways and synapses will repeat themselves exactly – it will be as if I am running water through a straw – there will be only one direction the memory can travel.”

Snape nodded, desperately holding onto the information in his insouciant mind.

“I will deposit the memories as much as possible in chronological order – my only guide to the age of each memory is in the hue – and so it may be approximate.  But that will make no lasting difference to your ability to retrieve them.”

The Wicce had taken up a candle from her desk and now applied the naked flame to the wax around the neck of his Witch’s Bottle.  The melted wax began to drip onto a saucer.

“Time distorts in the Pensieve, Professor, I believe all Pensieve’s are the same in that regard.  This will indeed take several hours in real time, but for you – it may feel like you have re-lived entire days.  You will feel very tired when you emerge.  No doubt you will feel emotional as well.”

A faint, aromatic smoke filled the room.  “This wax is enchanted, Professor.  When it melts, it sends a message to the memories they are about to be freed.  I must say, I am full of anticipation.  How do you feel?”

“I’m…I’m fine, I too am ready.”

“I am led to believe that the re-laying of the memories can cause some discomfort for a few days, you are exercising the brain in an unaccustomed fashion.  But the migraines you had – they should stop.”

Snape nodded.

“Are you ready to enter, Professor?  Come to the side of the Pensieve.”

Snape stood, gathered his bearings for a moment, and then with a thumping heart followed her instruction.  As he stood before the stone goblet which reached his waist, he placed a hand on the lip and peered inside. 

No memories were yet in the Pensieve and yet the cloudy gas-like substance on which the memories were conveyed shimmered within.

“There,” announced the Wicce, and put the candle back down on her desk.  With a flick of magic from her fingers, the cork stopper in the bottle rotated and then freed, floating above the neck.  She picked up her Mandrake wand and hovered it above the opening and Snape watched as the wisp of a memory rose to the tip of her wand like a sliver of ghost. 

“Look Professor –,” she murmured, so low it was akin to a whisper.  “This memory, there is a slight golden glow to it?  It is a more recent memory.  I don’t want to use this one yet.  It goes into a phial…”

On the desk was a carved cabinet with a gold clasp, and suspended in rows within the box were slim, crystal phials about the dimensions of a little finger.  She took a phial from the box and dangled the memory above it until it slipped inside.  The memory seemed to enhance, enlarge inside its new, clear prison.  “That memory will sit there happily until it is the right time.  I will keep drawing these out and ordering them.   Professor, it is time for you to enter.”

Snape’s mouth went dry, but he was not afraid, not even apprehensive.  It was simply the culmination of twelve years of being apart from a life that had been his, the moment when he would be granted access to a mystery, a mystery of his own making.  He wanted to see what he had done.  He wanted to see Charity.

He turned and faced the Pensieve, fixed his eyes on the swirling, roiling substance within and tipped himself towards it….

The falling sensation he knew, the disorientation he expected now that he was in nothing but white, no up, no down, nothing solid.  He held his breath and waited.

Moments later, all around him, colour, form, structure washed into the space he found himself standing, his eyes registered objects, he was conscious of being alive and existing, but as if he’d just woken up.  He was standing before the door of the Hogwarts archive.  He was holding his diaries in one hand and his documents for archiving in the other.  He shifted everything into one arm and with the other hand banged on the large, black-iron knocker.

“Yes?  Who is it?” came a voice from within that he recognised as Charity Burbage.

“Professor Snape. I was hoping I might consult you.”

After a pause, the hasp lifted and the door swung inward.  Burbage peeked through the gap.

“Oh it is you,” she uttered, looking surprised and a little annoyed.  But then she smiled.  “Did you want to come in?”

“Please.  I should only take a minute.”

 

* * *

 

He was in a state of complete altered consciousness.  Hour upon hour, the Wicce drew forth memories from the Witch’s Bottle, placed them in a phial, and then starting with those that were palest through to those almost pure gold in colour, she placed with her wand into the Pensieve one at a time. 

Part-way through, Diaphne entered the room.  She discussed events with her Aunt, gave the Wicce a short break, re-lit sconces and candles that had gone out, took messages to staff and later, brought tea and food for the Wicce.

The Wicce, for her part, was very satisfied with the procedure thus far.  When a new memory had been dropped into the Pensieve, and she watched it swirl away into a world in the head of Severus Snape, she would pick up her quill and make short notes in a journal.  She was particularly interested in what she described as the ‘quality’ of the memory, some were definably more vivid, more lustrous, and while she had assumed this was a measure of the memory’s recency, she started to speculate whether it was also, or rather, a measure of the memory’s potency.  If only she had been able to tell, from her position of spectator, what was going on.

What was going on for Snape was, without a doubt, intense.  He wasn’t experiencing the memories as if in a back-to-back sequence – unless events had actually played out that way – but the effect was as if his brain were being rewired, or more accurately, re-edited.  He only re-lived the parts that had been excised, and the restored sections re-joined – beginning and end – to memories he already had, as though tracks were being repaired in damaged sections and a train were allowed to travel to the farthest extent it could until new sections were replaced.  But he didn’t need to exist again for the unremoved sections of his memory, he simply seemed to skim over those parts in preference to the memories the Wicce deposited into the Pensieve.

To him, he was alive in 1993.  He was alive amongst the students of Hogwarts, coordinating an audit in the archive with Charity.  On the barest periphery were the likes of Dumbledore, Sinistra, Lupin and the auditors.   In his eyes, in his mind, in his heart, blossoming, like a desert flower, was his love for her.  It all re-opened.  He saw it, he heard it, he felt it like the first time.  It made him giddy, the touch, the taste – she was all he could look at.  And throughout, tiny whispered messages said to him: _remember this, try to remember this, store this away_ …and even though he knew the failings of human memory - it was so imperfect, so flawed, so rudimentary - he would attempt the mental equivalent of a photograph to pack away in his vaults, to try and fix his hands around a moment in time, to make the transcendent a tangible thing.

At around five pm, Diaphne returned to the Wicce’s rooms and found her Aunt in the same position, slightly slumped in her chair, her eyes tired and strained.

“Aunt…it has been almost five hours.  Do you think there is much longer to go?”

“Three memories left,” said the Wicce, indicating the near-gold memories in their phials that were suspended in the cabinet.  “They are both recent and, I think, powerful.  He needs these memories so I am committed to the end.”

“What can I do?” Diaphne asked.  “The infirmary is all quiet at the moment.”

“There is not much you can do here,” said the Wicce, glancing around her as if qualifying this.  “I want to be here when it is time for him to emerge.”

“Then…” Diaphne looked a little hesitant, “might you consider releasing me?  I have things…I need to get back to…”

The Wicce looked a touch confused.  “But what about the Professor?”

“Do you think he needs me?”

“Needs you?  No it is not that so much…no it is that I rather expected you to want to see him afterward.  You’ve been so attentive to him in the past.”

Diaphne sighed and turned her eyes to the floor.  “The Professor has made it plain to me that there will be no future for us.  I am trying to move on.  He will emerge from the Pensieve freshly renewed in his love for Charity and that is not something I particularly look forward to.  I am taking his own advice and conditioning myself to view him only in a professional light.”

The Wicce listened to this and studied Diaphne with an air of dubiousness.  Then after a moment of thought, she said, “Well…it is true that he will likely feel invigorated in his feelings towards the lady, but it doesn’t change the outcome.  She remains lost to him.  However if it pains you to see him love another, then perhaps your reasoning has a fair basis.  And if he has as much told you that your affections won’t be reciprocated then…”

She paused when she saw Diaphne was blinking rapidly and turned slightly away before touching her fingers lightly to her cheeks. 

“Yes…go, Diaphne, you’re released.  I’ll see to the Professor when he emerges.”

“Thank you Aunt,” mumbled Diaphne, and immediately departed.

“Broken hearts,” muttered the Wicce, partly to herself, partly to the glowing Pensieve, and shook her head.  “Professor, if you can’t have what you love, then love what you have.”

 

* * *

 

The last memory was finally slipped into the ether of the Pensieve and the Wicce sat back heavily in her chair, hands dropped in her lap, depleted.  The last memory had been almost glossy in appearance, and as it rejoiced in its escape amongst the mist of the Pensieve’s innards, slipping along the tendrils, lighting up the stone with its glow, she thought she saw a glimpse of what the memory contained: a house, a Muggle street, a lawn – and then it was gone.

Inside the Pensieve, Snape transitioned through a blank spot and came to, outside a Muggle primary school.  He was searching for Charity.  He sent his doe to find her and followed it through the suburban streets and gardens of the town where she lived.  When he discovered her, it was the moment he realised that Charity was pregnant, and as he secretly watched from a distance, her bump visible as she stood on the lawn outside the house of her ex-husband, he made a choice – a choice to walk away, a choice based on an assumption, the wrong assumption – which, as the memory faded towards black again – he realised the moment two bits of train-track were connected.  He hadn’t known, before he went into the Pensieve, that an entirely different history for him had been possible, _available_ , if only he’d spoken to her, if only he’d stepped forward and allowed her to see him, that a destiny had been rent asunder within the space of a second when he let the door shut behind her.

He was almost flung from the Pensieve back onto the floor of the Wicce’s room.  He gripped the edge of the stone to steady himself and breathed deeply while adjusting to his whereabouts and reality in time and space, the crashing presence of which felt like a metaphysical wrecking ball.  He saw the Wicce had gone to her padded chair behind her desk and sat, quietly observing, and Snape shakily sought the relative stability of one of the visitor chairs.

“Take your time Professor,” said the Wicce, steepling her fingers and watching him.  “Get your bearings.”

He gazed around at her, slightly wild-eyed.

“Do you know what year it is?” she asked gently.

“Two-thousand…Merlin…it’s two thousand and six.  I’ve been in 1993…”

“It felt real?”

“ _Felt?_   It was real.  It was real.”

“Yes.  It was real.”

“I arranged for that…I arranged for that ritual.  I remember it all now.  I don’t remember the ritual itself - ,”

“No, that was an O _bliviation_ , not part of the _Memoriam Delens_.  I can’t remove a memory while it’s being made.”

“But I was wrong!”

Snape swayed on his seat and then suddenly his internal thermostat soared and he broke out in a sweat, then just as suddenly plummeted, and he began to shiver.  “I was wrong about the baby!  It was mine – _he_ was mine.  It could have been different – I could have changed everything – she might be alive now!  I could have watched Servius grow up…”

“Professor, regrets are just memories we wish we didn’t have – they are idle.”

“She told me!  She sent a Patronus and told me about Servius, but I – I…”

“It was too late.”

“I erased her!  I fucking erased her!”

“You told me you’d said goodbye.”

“I hadn’t!  I didn’t!” he took a long, shuddery breath.  “I just didn’t want to hurt anymore…”

“Let the past bury its dead,” she murmured.

He wasn’t listening, fixated on the stinging, flayed wounds of remorse. “I should have gone to her.  I should have carried her away.”

“Professor, you don’t know what fate had in store for her…you may not have been able to prevent the inevitable, however noble -.”

“Fate?  You sound like Trelawney.  We forge our own histories.  We make decisions every minute, every hour, and sometimes those decisions meet with an event that we agree was good, and sometimes…sometimes we make wrong decisions, wrong, badly wrong decisions that we may never overcome.  And there is our life.  And I…I have a library of regrets. Have I learnt nothing?!”

He stood abruptly and toppled, then blacked out, falling to the floor of the Wicce’s room.

 

* * *

 

The Wicce tended to him overnight on the ward, dosing him with various potions to restore his equilibrium a little, and though he was exhausted, he kept waking from horrendous nightmares and his racing heart.  And like a throbbing tooth he couldn’t leave alone, were his new memories of Charity; his mind fretted on them.  The sounds of the other patients attempting to sleep kept him still in his bed, but he longed to rise and walk outside, to see the stars, to feel the balming night around him, because he felt, somehow, that might bring him closer to her. 

It had shocked him, how fervently he had felt for her.  There had been nothing tentative about his heart, only small, intellectual reservations about impropriety, and loyalty to Lily.  But he had proposed to her, he had wanted to spend his life with her, they had planned a home and family together – they might have had that now, he might have had a cottage in Hogsmeade, like Slughorn, with Charity and Servius, perhaps even another child.  At the time had accepted her rejection as outright, but she had not said no, he understood too late, she’d said _not now_.  Even Dumbledore had warned him – give it time. 

He had time now.  He had the rest of his life without her.

And just as a train can take you on, so too can they bring you back.  And along the newly laid tracks in his head, he returned to the same place where he had been at the time of his original decision: the knowing was almost too awful to bear.  It would have been better not to have the memories at all.  Was it a kind of galling irony, then, that the consequence of erasing her memory was eventual blindness?

_You should not be spared knowing_ , Sinistra had said.  _How you took the coward’s way out_.

Which act had been the most cowardly? he wondered, cringing over his selection.  Assuming the worst about her?  Erasing her memory? Letting her die?

And all the while, his mind hovered on his memories of her, coveted them, obsessed on them slavishly like a dragon hoarding its gold.  As dawn drew on, they had settled somewhat and he allowed himself to dwell more on the memories that brought him pleasure, because, as was the nature of recollections, the worst grew darker and more bitter with time, but the best grew fairer and sweeter, and was succour to his stricken conscience, enough that eventually he was able to fall asleep.

 

Back at Hogwarts much later that morning, Snape used a hidden passage to make his way to his rooms unseen, the dungeon untroubled by builders or Slughorn on the weekend.  Once safely in the privacy of his quarters, he ran a bath and soaked in the tub for at least an hour and thought to himself that he’d arrived at a mountaintop, he’d completed a journey that had preoccupied him for weeks, but now he was here, he didn’t know what was expected of him.  He was changed, he was whole, but was bereft of both a love and a purpose.

After his bath he went to bed after taking the last dose of the potion the Wicce had given him, and he tried to relay his memories again and again, but he couldn’t resist the weariness that quickly claimed him and he slept soundly for several hours, awoken in the early evening by hunger and with a clear mind.  But with an ache in his chest where he missed her.

For the remaining week before term started, Snape went about his affairs in something of a daze.  He continued to be accosted by flashbacks as his neural pathways were habituated and sometimes he would carry on regardless, abstracted but unable to indulge it, and sometimes he would pause in his activity and allow himself to be transported to a time and a place that hitherto had been denied him.  His small retinue of photos of Charity and Servius were viewed frequently. 

 

On Friday, in the evening, was Horace Slughorn’s party.  The occasion marked his official retirement from teaching but was, frankly, a poorly disguised incentive to organise a gathering – it was any excuse for Slughorn.

The Three Broomsticks had been given over to the function as Slughorn had invited all the teachers and support staff, ghosts and goblins as well as a smattering of personal friends and acquaintances Apparating to Scotland.  Madam Rosmerta had done a fine job of decorating the venue and creating an atmosphere fit for a bit of revelry, with plenty of food and an open tab afforded by Slughorn’s bachelor lifestyle.

When Snape entered the Broomsticks an hour later than the designated start time, literally forcing himself to make the journey from an otherwise blissfully deserted castle, the party was in full swing.  Music was playing, the ceiling was obscured by a fug of pipe smoke and oil lamps, the sound of laughter and talking was almost deafening.  Hagrid’s booming guffaw could be heard above everything else at frequent intervals, and it was standing room only, with every seat resolutely guarded by the occupier.  Snape had to hang his traveling cloak with a charm since every cloakroom hook had been employed several times over, and he almost knocked over a tray of butterbeers precariously balanced by a serving lady (almost certainly one of the Hogsmeade Coven earning some extra cash) who edged past him at the entrance.  It was the stuff of Snape’s nightmares.

Scowling, he made his way up to the bar, deciding that this would require two or three stiff whisky’s to become bearable.   There were several assorted teachers propping it up who welcomed him and a few other people he didn’t recognise.  Madam Rosmerta, behind the bar, was working hard, utilising a range of specialised serving charms and spells to keep up with multiple orders and requests.  She gave Snape a scant smile as she prepared his Firewhisky.

Tumbler in hand he turned back to the crowd and was immediately hailed by McGonagall, sitting at a bench seat with three aside, who waved him over. He stood beside the table and the conversation was held in half-shouts. “Severus!” she said breathlessly.  The wine she was drinking, on top of her fatigue, was making her appear a little manic. “I’ve hardly seen you all week.   Are you coming to see me on Monday?”

“Of course Ma’am.”

“Ma’am?  For Merlin’s sake get that liquor down you – this is a party!”

“Indeed.”

“Is everything alright?”

“I’ve been a little…distracted.  But please do not concern yourself, everything is on track for term.”

She nodded.  “Severus, on Monday, I want to talk about you taking office for a week – I’ll need to be going to London for a while – I can’t be Apparating back and forth.  Will you be able to manage?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“But there’s another thing – if Professor Binns isn’t going to be back in time for term, can you hold the History class until I arrange a substitute?”

“History?” repeated Snape, a subject he ranked alongside Ancient Runes and Divination (and, for quite a long time, Muggle Studies) as Least Useful and Practical Subjects Ever. 

“Well according to you, he should be back from holidays soon, so I imagine it will only be for a couple of days.  I’ll rejig the schedule so History and Potions don’t clash.”

This had been the news he’d received from the Bloody Baron who’d finally reported back his intelligence on the whereabouts of Professor Binns.  Apparently the History teacher had decided he was owed holidays, and had last been seen exiting through the south wall of the castle bound for exotic, summer shores.  Snape couldn’t believe that ghosts needed or wanted holidays - his mind would have boggled had it not already been at saturation point.  While the Baron could not confirm when these holidays might conclude, Snape had made a wild assumption based on Binn’s previous life as a Professor, and therefore fully conversant with the significance of a new school year.

“Um, I suppose I could manage a few…”

“Oh thank you.  You really have been _such_ a life-saver since you came back.  Now, as far as Horace’s speeches are concerned, this is the running sheet.  You are to go first, followed by Harry, then me, and then of course Horace himself.  I think we should start reasonably soon while there’s a semblance of sobriety, what do you think?”

“Harry?  Potter?”

“Yes Harry. Potter.  He’s over there.”  She pointed to a table further within the room, not far from the substantial fireplace.

Snape straightened and looked over.  Potter was indeed seated at the table, surrounded by a small knot of teachers and friends including Slughorn himself, and sharing the table with him was Pomfrey, Longbottom and Diaphne.  She was looking flushed, smiling and laughing at some exchange between Potter and Longbottom.

Snape was newly reminded why he hated these things.  Not only did Potter, dressed in casual clothes, look even more like his father, the camaraderie between him and Longbottom was exactly the sort of carry-on he used to observe between James and his bloody awful Marauders.  And that starry-eyed, adoring look worn by Diaphne was how Lily used to look towards the end, all her sensible scorn emptied out and replace with adulation.  All that was missing was a snitch hovering about.

“I see,” said Snape grimly, his mouth set.  McGonagall raised a brow as Snape knocked back the last of his whisky.

“So you are agreed?  I’ll leave you to get the ball rolling,” said the Headmistress, and turned back to her companions at the table.

Snape trudged back the bar, seething.  Diaphne had come with Longbottom after all, despite his warning.  Hadn’t stayed at the infirmary for him, Disapparated back to Hogwarts as soon as her little dragon-hide slippers could manage it, into the waiting arms of _Neville_ , obviously.  No wonder the man hadn’t come to see him all week – he was clearly none the wiser.

He ordered a second whisky – a double – and slightly more fortified, started his passage to the Potter table.     

“Professor Snape!” declared Potter as he approached and rose to extend his hand.  Snape shook it quickly, downed his whisky and plonked it on a passing empty tray, shook Slughorn’s hand and then cast his eyes over the remaining members of the group at the table.

Longbottom was regarding him with mirthless contempt, Diaphne examined a knot-hole in the table top, only Pomfrey raised her glass cheerily.

“Seems you’ve had a good turn out,” Snape said to Slughorn, who responded with a confused “What?” and nodded vaguely.  Standard conversation was out of the question.

“I was just getting a few ideas for my speech,” Potter said loudly to Snape; he appeared in good spirits and was holding the dregs of a pint of Butterbeer.  “So many brilliant stories about Sluggy!”

Slughorn raised his glass containing the detritus of an extravagant cocktail and grinned and nodded benignly.

“Yes.  I’ve just been asked by the Headmistress to get the speeches underway.  Yours will follow mine, if that suits you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, I can’t stay late – Ginny’s ready to pop and I promised her I’d be home this week.”

“Ginny – pardon?”

“Ginny!  The baby!  She’s due this week.”

Snape digested this news while he stared at Potter, thinking of Draco’s due soon and absently wondering if all his Gryffindor Slytherin alumni of ‘91 were breeding like rabbits.  “Well that’s wonderful,” he muttered, but of course Potter didn’t hear him. 

“Have you been thinking about names?” Pomfrey asked Potter. 

“Well…if it’s a boy…I was thinking of Albus.”

“Ah nice,” said Pomfrey.

“And maybe Remus for a second name,” added Potter, and Longbottom raised his glass approvingly.  Potter looked at Snape and winked.  “Keeps with my theme of remembering the fallen.”

“And if it’s a girl, then obviously Lily,” said Longbottom.

Slughorn raised his own, mostly empty glass.  “To the next generation – may they keep the peace.”

Everyone around the table lifted their glasses and Snape merely nodded his head, then made his way through the throngs towards the fireplace, from where he would make his speech as Madam Rosmerta had thoughtfully arranged a podium.  He didn’t know what the wink had meant, and he didn’t know if Longbottom had mentioned Lily intentionally, he didn’t know _what_ Longbottom knew about him.  He just knew he felt like an outsider as he stood there, that he had become slightly nauseated hearing those names again and again; even in death their little clique seemed destined to persecute him.  James, Remus, Lily.  The name Albus now amongst their ranks signified the lines of allegiance, however impartial the Headmaster had tried to present himself.  Dumbledore was satisfied that Snape had been best used as an instrument rather than part of the inner sanctum.  _“I  sometimes think we sort too soon,”_ Dumbledore had said to him, as if he _almost_ thought Snape worthy of something better, as if, on certain days or after certain deeds, Dumbledore saw enough value in Snape that might have justified a slightly better outlook or treatment, if for instance, he’d been placed in Gryffindor.  But then, quickly, without the follow-through that would have led to an unpopular commitment, Dumbledore would remember that Snape was better use to him where he was.  Bleakly, Snape pushed the thoughts away and turned his attention to the task at hand.

He didn’t like amplifying his voice so Hagrid did the job of calling everyone’s attention and demanding silence, then, slightly warm under the expectant gaze of everyone in the pub, Snape got to work acknowledging Slughorn’s contribution and the more serious content of citing Slughorn’s professional accolades since being a Potions Master.  He had done his research during the week in the library and personnel files, and much of his speech was drawn on his own experiences studying under Slughorn and having him as his Head of House.  He finished by remarking how it worked in Slughorn’s favour to retire twice, since the second led to the unusual achievement of Slughorn having obtained Emeritus, something that hadn’t been granted a Hogwarts Professor in decades, and that everyone was waiting with baited-breath to see what this would beget.  He closed by inviting everyone to join him in a round of applause and when he looked at Slughorn, the Professor had turned purple.

Potter got to do the funny speech.  Stories about the Slug Club, transfiguring himself into an armchair, curing Ron of the love potion, the Felix Felicis competition, singing shanties with Hagrid and fighting Voldemort in his emerald-green pyjamas.  He of course tactfully left out any mention of Slughorn inadvertently encouraging Tom Riddle or altering his own memories – a rare and overlooked skill because Snape didn’t know for the life of him how someone could do that, and he was becoming quite well read on the subject of memory manipulation.  The speech had taken quite a long time to complete because the audience had been laughing so much – in fact, probably more than the subject actually warranted and Snape perceived a fair proportion of it was more to do with hero worship – Potter had to keep pausing until there was quiet enough to continue.  Finally when he’d finished, the pub erupted into cheers and applause, everyone agreeing that the Famous Harry Potter was just fabulous and it was such a good idea of Slughorn’s to invite him.  Snape rolled his eyes.

McGonagall’s speech was mercifully brief and to the point: the gifting of a mantlepiece-appropriate gold Mortar Board and a framed service certificate from the Board of Governors, a self-replenishing bottle of Slughorn’s favourite Firewhisky, a formal issue of thanks and her personal pleasure of having worked alongside the Head of House who made Slytherin easy to beat.  Slughorn was beetroot and adoring every second and once more, his guests applauded riotously.

“Speech!  Speech!” they demanded until Slughorn took to the podium himself and did a very adequate job of appearing bashful and surprised and as if he’d barely had time to think of anything to say.  His “impromptu” speech took thirty minutes and everyone was starting to get hungry and thirsty by the end of it, and Snape eyed Potter glancing at his watch repeatedly.

At last the formalities of the occasion were over and everybody got stuck into the business of enjoying themselves – literally at Slughorn’s expense.   Snape, still tired, now thoroughly riled to boot, and fantasizing about his bed, a book and his memories of Charity, approached Slughorn to make his farewells.

The Emeritus was getting quite ruddy-cheeked by this point, and on seeing Snape, clasped his hand with both of his and shook it heartily. “Bloody lovely speech, old chap,” he bellowed.  “Didn’t know I’d done all that!  Might get a copy if you’ve written it down?”

“Uh, certainly.  Horace, I’m making my departure -,”

“What?  No - !”

“I’ve got things I need -,”

“Now, Severus, there’s something I need to talk to you about before you go.  Alright?  Now all this retirement palaver’s over, I’ve some plans to travel I’m finally acting on.  I’ve had friends hounding me for years to join them on their Canal Boat in Toulouse.  So I’m going to head off for a bit, and I was wondering if you could take over the Slytherins for me?”

“What?  When?  Does McGonagall know?”

“It’s alright, not for a couple of weeks, I’ll get the first years settled and then they’ll as good as look after themselves, won’t they?”

Potions Master, acting Headmaster, Head of House opposite Longbottom, acting History teacher and his own recalcitrant child starting Hogwarts – why hadn’t he stayed away?

Slughorn took Snape’s stunned silence as a positive and slapped him on the back.  “You’re worth your weight, old boy.  Just champion.”

Snape needed air.  He discreetly made his exit after fetching his cloak and with huge relief stepped out into the cool of the evening, letting the door of the pub bang shut behind him.  It was deliciously quiet and still on the main street of Hogsmeade.  Only a few stars were out, it was still a while off proper night, and while it was the first day of September, it was yet three weeks until the Autumn Equinox.  Nobody had told the trees.  They were as green and fulsome as the first day of summer, but Snape knew that the fall would not be far away, a time he associated with mothball-smelling school jumpers, early Quidditch matches and endless pumpkin juice.  Even after eight years away.

He was looking forward to his walk back to Hogwarts and had started off briskly when he heard the door bang again and then: “Severus?!”

A woman’s voice.  He steeled, expecting Diaphne, but when he turned he saw Aurora Sinistra hurrying after him and putting on her cloak at the same time. 

He waited, perplexed, until she caught him up.  She was smiling, bright-eyed and his own narrowed.  “Something I can help you with, Aurora?”

“Aren’t you staying, Severus?  This is very early to be heading off.”

“I – it -,”

“It’s not your thing.  I know.  You actually gave me a great excuse to make my own getaway.  Can I join you?” she indicated the road heading to Hogwarts.

“Very well.  Although I should warn you I don’t intend to tarry.”

“I can keep up with you.”

They set off, and even though Snape had declared his intention to make his usual pace, he did in fact check it as a courtesy to her, conscious that her boots were heeled.

From behind a distant hill of tall Scots pines, the waxing moon revealed itself in spectacular glory, every mare, mountain and crater was visible, the  edge seemed to glow.  It was impossible not to look at, and presently Sinistra commented: “Not full for almost another week.”

“Harvest moon?”

“Supermoon and the harvest moon I think.  Either way, special.  She’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Snape, unthinkingly.  “She’s beautiful.”

“Can you feel her pull?”

Snape’s heart suddenly skipped a beat, and he glanced at Sinistra but her eyes were fixed on the moon.  “Yes,” he murmured.

They stepped on in silence for a little, Snape reflecting on her words.

“I thought your speech was great,” she then said.  “You had the hard one.  The one that took effort.”

“Yes, but…well, it is his retirement.”

“Funny stories are entertaining, but they can be anyone.  You took the trouble to bring a full-stop to his career.  The end of the sentence – ha ha – get it?”

He glanced at her again, an unsure smile on his face.  On they walked, their feet crunching on the dirt track.  Presently Sinistra stopped and put a steadying hand on Snape’s arm.  He paused, frowning but she put a finger to her lips, her eyes trained on something and then pointed.  Across a section of heath, towards a backdrop of dark forest, was a handsome red deer stag.  He was a dull red in colour, his mane thick and shaggy ready for fighting, his antlers like pale tree branches, recently cleared of velvet.  The stag was absorbed in thrashing at a bush, the reason why they’d come across it without it fleeing.

“Look at him,” Sinistra whispered.  “Prime of his life.  He’s going to fight for his girls soon.  That’s all he’ll care about.  It’ll be blood and battle and the right to reign.”

Snape turned his attention from the deer to Sinistra again, wondering where this poetic streak had come from with her.  “Do you…know…much about wildlife?”

“Around these parts I do.  There’s always something, have you noticed?  Unicorns, deer, badgers, thestrals.  Always something.”

They recommenced their walk as the deer melted into the shrub.

“Did you know the giant squid appears to have…bred? Spawned? There’s more, at any rate.”

“Really?  Huh.  Can it do that? Sometimes it feels as if everyone’s just popping out babies.”

The slightly caustic tone to her comment divulged an inner mindset on the subject.  It echoed his thoughts from earlier and, unexpectedly, brought a smile to his lips.

“An eternal Spring?”

“Spring, summer, autumn – those babies just keep coming.”

He didn’t comment further, but focussed on the path before him, sensing her bristling beside him.

“Actually, Severus,” she said after a while, moderated.   “On the subject of children, I have my first present for Servius.”

“A present?”

“Yes!  Godmothers get to spoil their godchildren.  I have something I always wanted to give a child of my own, but it will be perfect for him.  Charity would love it.”

“What is it?”

“A blanket.  I had it as a little girl.  It’s charmed and I’ve never seen another like it, that’s why I hung onto it.  When you lay it over yourself, it snuggles into you and it has stars and moons all over it which glow when you say an incantation.  Honestly, Severus, he’ll love it.”

Snape was touched.  “Thank you,” he said, privately rather uncertain whether Servius would like it being eleven going on twenty-one, but he understood this was more about Sinistra than his son.

“Did you see the Wicce?” she asked in hushed tones although they were quite alone.

Snape nodded.

She looked up at him sharply and stared.  “You’ve had the memories restored?”

He nodded again, his thoughts immediately flying to Charity. 

They crossed a short, stone bridge and the brook below was gurgling, the immersed, rounded river-rocks were green with moss.  But she continued to stare at him.  “Merlin, Severus – are you okay?”

He opened his mouth, but no words were quite right and so he shut it again.

“I can’t believe it!  You remember everything about Charity again?  All those beautiful memories?”

He nodded, and his eyes lifted to look at the moon, and she was silent.

Suddenly her face lit up with an ear to ear grin, and she paused him to say:  “Do you remember the Staff party?  And the Faerie Call?  I never got to see it, but she told me all about it!”

“Yes.  All of it,” he said.

“That time like just now, in the Broomsticks?  I spent an hour getting her ready.  You should have seen your face when you saw her.”

He smiled.  “I remember it.”

“The Bewitchers Ribbon?  That was me.”

“Yes.  I know. We talked about it.”

She studied him, her own expression clearly displaying the procession of memories in her own head.  “The Wicce thought you should have broken it sooner.”

“The way I feel now it might not have made any difference.”

“And the Druid’s Night?” she added, smile reinstated.

He nodded.  “I don’t know what was the matter with her…she was angry at me that night.”

“Ah, women are complicated,” said Sinistra, vision inward.  Then her grin contorted, and she turned her face and said in choked voice, “Papus save us, Severus, she was so in love with you.”

After a moment he said, “I was so in love with her.”

And Sinistra hesitantly took Snape’s hand and gave it a squeeze.  A second later, he squeezed it back.  “And now there’s Servius,” she said.  “We three will never forget her.”  



	15. The Hogwarts Express

As the first rays of dawn shone through the opaque arched roof of Kings Cross station, and the pigeons that roosted in the rafters began to strike out into the London sky, a locomotive in handsome crimson and black livery slowly rumbled along its northerly track and, with a great hiss and plume of steam, came to a halt at Platform 9 ¾.  The nightshift Muggles awaiting their trains on adjacent platforms did not see the gleam of the boiler, the shine of the buffers and rails, the spit and polish on the crankshaft or coupling rods, for the Express travelled only where witches and wizards went, and today, it was bound for Hogwarts, 11am sharp.

It was Sunday, but not a day of rest for the teachers.  At breakfast, there was a heightened mood in the Great Hall, a surcharge of energy, they were talkative and jokey, some, like Trelawney, a bit panicky.  But most – most were ready; ready and waiting.  The Express would arrive on or around 6pm.

Snape had followed up breakfast with a visit to his dungeon classroom. He wandered about it, a final inspection, trying to see it anew.   Like all the teachers, the first day of a new school year filled his head with the prominent matters of lessons and students, and regardless of years of experience, he – and his peers – were now poised like actors before the curtain rose, like an artist about to unveil their masterpiece, like poets at an opening recital – he couldn’t deny the vulnerability when presented with a roomful of new faces: he always thought _will they like it?_   Would they respond to his offering and open their minds to him, welcome the knowledge he could give them?  And might they even _like_ it?

He straightened the oil lamp on his table, but it was the only thing left to do and when he turned back towards the rows of desks he wondered what Servius would make of it.  Compared to what the boy would be accustomed to, Potions in the dungeon was about as far a departure from a modern day learning environment as it was possible to get and still be in a school.  The contrast was not something that had ever bothered him before, but today: today he was self-conscious.  He was anticipating antipathy, scorn, cynicism from his son – all the things he was so good at himself – and he had no real plans for dealing with it.

The Headmistress had asked to see him that morning and he left the classroom and stalked through the castle towards the Head’s Tower.  In passing, he quickly dropped into the kitchens to double-check the elves were aware that tonight was the arrival feast.    Mr Gadkey in his bowler hat grumpily assured him, against a backdrop of utter elf-strewn gallery chaos, that yes, on Dobby’s ears, of course they knew, they’d known for weeks, was he insulting their professionalism?  and then the indignant elf all but booted him out.  That was fine with Snape.  He continued on his way.

When he entered the Headmaster’s Office, McGonagall was pacing the room.  The fact she was holding a full teacup as she did so, and spilled not a single drop, was a credit to her actual composure.  However, like everyone in the castle, she didn’t seem very calm.

“Severus!  Good heavens, Merlin’s slippers, where have you been?”

“Checking the kitchens, Ma’am.”

“Do they know there’s a feast tonight?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Has Hagrid the boats ready?”

“He was talking about it, so I believe so.”

“Check, will you?  Last year there was a leaky one.”

He nodded.  She took a sip of tea and as she did, Snape looked up at Dumbledore who chuckled.  “Best day of the year, I always think,” said the portrait.

“From there, it’s steadily downhill,” said Snape.

“What’s this?!” exclaimed Dumbledore “You’ve had eight years off, Severus!  Your dark heart should be brimming with the excitement of an apprentice!”

“Today, perhaps.  Tomorrow – then it will all come back.”

Dumbledore chortled.  “But surely a certain notable amongst our arrivals lends a new complexion?  Will not Servius’ unspoilt eyes be watching you from behind his little dungeon desk?”

“Unfortunately I’m not at all convinced that will make the situation in any way better.”

“Och Severus!” scolded McGonagall.  “That’s no way to talk about your own child. And which House will he be sorted into?”

“Slytherin, I expect.”

“And is that quite decided or will the Hat be allowed to do its job?”

“He will participate in all the rituals and traditions normal for a first year.  Including sharing a train compartment with friend or foe.”

McGonagall gave a delighted laugh.  “But you will see him onto the train?  It leaves in an hour.”

Snape half shook his head.  “No.  I hadn’t planned on it.”

McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged glances, something that now seemed to happen whenever he entered the office. 

“Go, Severus,” she said with a small smile, her eyes softened from their earlier anxiety.  “See your son onto his first Express – there’s only ever a first time.  Once he’s en route, come back to Hogwarts and we’ll finish our meeting.”

Snape’s understanding was that Servius was to be accompanied to Kings Cross with his grandparents and Candace Peacock.  Presumably the unusual station was not a mystery to Mr and Mrs Burbage, after all they would have seen Charity onto the train a few times.  But it hadn’t occurred to him to be there himself.  He’d been so self-absorbed the past week he’d barely thought of Servius in any respect – as a baby perhaps, but not as an eleven-year-old about to start life in a completely foreign world with total strangers away from everything that was safe and familiar.  No, with some shame Snape realised he hadn’t stopped to think about that much. 

“Uh - ,” he said uncertainly.  “So…just meet him on the platform you think?”

McGonagall smirked.  “Aye.  Just watch what the other parents do.”

Snape gave her a measured scowl, then nodded his head by way of thanks and left the office.

 

* * *

 

By the time he’d cleared his way of Hogwarts and Disapparated to London, it was half-past ten and the platform he arrived at was congested with students of every size, shape and colour, along with their parents, junior siblings, trolleys, bags, cages, cases and one escaped owl that was flying back and forth near the roof.  New to the scene since Snape had taken the train himself as a youngster was the employment of brightly coloured banners, balloons and group singalongs to wish the boarder-to-be a fond farewell, which, in effect, did nought but reduce the poor child in question to neurotic tears.  Of these there were a few, Snape noticed as he meandered through the crowd – the children of 2006 seemed slightly less stoic than those in the ‘70’s.  By the time a boy reached eleven in his generation, they were virtually forbidden to cry.  Of course, his own circumstances couldn’t really be viewed as representative: he’d been dancing on the inside when it was his first time to board the Express.  The hours had seemed to drag until he heard the whistle finally blow.

Snape earned some curious looks as he made his way along the platform – as it was, he was taller than most present, and his dark, forbidding countenance inspired guilty reflexes in even the most innocent of beholders – but he was, for the most part, unknown to the students.  There was an odd parent here or there who may have schooled alongside him, or been taught by him, or who recognised him from the papers.  But had his sudden Apparition on Platform 9 ¾ occurred ten years earlier, there would have been a very different reception.

Today, however, he could take advantage of the anonymity to concentrate on matters of a far more personal nature.  He at last set eyes upon his son, grouped with his grandparents, Peacock in her MoM uniform stiffly standing a little apart as if afraid of contamination from the unusual density of teenagers, and realised with latent gratitude how glad he was he had come.  The little party seemed confused and lost, situated too close to the entry point in the platform wall and so periodically assaulted by new arrivals charging through with their trolleys, each occasion followed by a consternated regrouping and flustered checking of belongings by Mrs Burbage.

Servius was still dressed in his Muggle clothes but had, Snape observed with some consolation, been given a haircut.  Double-standards was at least one parenting characteristic that Snape had intuited without difficulty.  His son stood rigid, proudly, but of the defiant kind: the Snape variant which communicated to anyone caring to ask that he would go down fighting, however innocuous the question.  He wore trainers that were belligerently Muggle, but at the same time he kept one hand protectively on the cage containing his owl (evidently the bird had made it home again).  He was his mother all over again: a child caught in the middle.

Snape’s heart contracted - all safely at a distance - the same way it had when Servius stood in Ollivanders.  Seeing your flesh and blood at large in the world gave rise to protective instincts that seemed to disappear at closer quarters.  But more than that: Servius now suggested an added dimension to his being.  He was augmented by his mother, her presence in Snape’s consciousness gave Servius an intactness he hadn’t had before – a line broken by angles was now able to join at an apex.  As Snape started towards him he was spotted, and Snape saw, before an aspect of disdain was studiously planted, Servius had gazed with wonder at his father: relief, astonishment and awe all at once.  It was mere seconds on display, but Snape had seen it, and the moment was locked down fast.  Servius, in his inexperience, had given ground.

“Professor!” exclaimed Peacock hurrying forward at the sight of him.  “I had no idea it got so busy!  I must say, I’m glad you’re here.  I’ve gotten Servius and his grandparents this far: what would you like me to do from here?”

There was no disguising that Peacock sought permission to be released.  “Thank you for everything Madam Peacock.  I’m sure you have important things to be getting on with at work?”

“I do, I do,” she said, the permission seized, and turned back to the family.  “I can’t leave you all in better hands than Professor Snape.  All the best, Servius!  You’ll be great!  You’ll fit in straight away, trust me!”

There was a brief flurry of farewells and thanks, interrupted only once by an arrival through the barrier, and then Peacock waved and was gone.  Servius stared at where she had been.  He then turned black eyes upon his father.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello Servius.  You certainly seem excited.”

Mr Burbage extended his hand and shook Snape’s heartily and Mrs Burbage, not the handshaking type, looked delighted to see him but at the same time utterly confused as to how to greet him.  Instead she said: “Oh Professor Snape, your timing is perfect.  We’ve had a dreadful run through London, Servius says he’s not feeling well, and it’s been so long since we’ve been on this platform I clear forgot how…well how to get on it.”

“It takes some getting used to for the uninitiated,” Snape conceded, making the barest eye-contact necessary to be polite before turning back to Servius.  “You’re not feeling well?”

“Nerves.  Just nerves,” advised Mr Burbage hurriedly.  “His mother was the same.  She’d throw up for hours before interviews.”

Snape didn’t know that and privately revelled in this tiny insight into Charity.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” Snape said to Servius, who was glaring at the floor.  “But once the train starts moving, it’s more like an adventure.  Everyone new feels the same way.”

In his mind - as his eyes studied the boy’s features, the young, smooth skin with the same sprinkle of freckles, the shape of his ears, jawline - he was remembering Charity with her bump and marvelled at the miracle of pregnancy and birth and growth as if the first person ever to do so.  Nothing brings it into full relief like becoming a parent for the first time.

Servius shrugged.  Snape was about to ask him about Täne’s flight home when Mrs Burbage jumped in.  “Mr Snape, I’ve packed all his books and uniforms and the other things you bought in _this_ case, mind it’s heavy, and in here are all his personal effects – I hope he has enough, I wasn’t sure what the school provided for things like toothpaste and shampoo - I mean, is there a shop?  And I’ve packed some of his favourite sweets – just a few treats to help him settle, you know.  And he wanted to bring his football, I hope that’s okay?  I packed extra socks because he just goes through them in weeks, and -,”

“Ma!” snapped Servius.  His ears had gone scarlet and he frowned ferociously.

Snape recalled the meagre belongings in his own, single bag when he’d left for Hogwarts.  “That’s very kind,” Snape said to Mrs Burbage.  “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

“Will you be sitting with him on the train?” Mr Burbage asked.  “I tell you what, I wouldn’t mind a trip on that old girl, what a beauty,” he then added, almost to himself, admiring the Express.

“No, I have to go back to work.” At this, Snape saw Servius scowl darkly again and wondered if Servius had in fact wanted his company.  “But your first boarding of the Express is an occasion worth marking.  I’ll see Servius when he gets to the school.”

“Where am I s’posed to get off?  How do I know where to go?” Servius asked.

“Hagrid will meet you.”

“Who’s Hagrid?”

Snape was momentarily mute.  He’d quite forgotten there existed a world in which nobody knew Hagrid.  At Diagon Alley, Servius had seen all manner of magical folk, but Hagrid would be his first giant. “Professor Hagrid is one of the teachers,” replied Snape, as Mr and Mrs Burbage listened equally intently.  “He’s…very large.  You won’t be able to miss him.  And he knows about you.”

A whistle suddenly sounded sharply and a conductor started marching up and down the platform hastening people to get belongings into the luggage compartments and make their final farewells.  Mr and Mrs Burbage urgently began to manoeuvre the trolley towards the train and Servius took the owl cage and a carry bag. Elves were dashing back and forth, levitating cases and shrinking trunks. 

Servius watched as boys and girls – many already in their uniforms, some barking instructions – started to mount the train with a deafening clamour, their excitement irrepressible at the joy of being reunited with their friends.  As Mr Burbage was assisted by an elf get the luggage on board, Servius glanced at Snape.  “Those kids have a different uniform from mine.  They’ve got colours.”

“They’re in a House,” answered Snape.  “You’ll be sorted into yours this evening.  And then you’ll be given uniform like theirs.”

“Candace told me about the Houses,” he muttered.  “Dumb names.”

Snape clasped his hands behind him and rocked on his heels slightly.  “Very old names,” he retorted, frowning.  “Have you thought about which House you’d like to be in?”

“What are they again?”

“Slytherin.”

No reaction.

“Ravenclaw.  Gryffindor -,”

“Yeah.  That one.  They sounded alright.”

“Gryffindor?” Snape rejoined swiftly, his dismay obvious.  “No, no – I don’t think -,”

“The lion, right?”

“Yes, but don’t be -,”

“Aren’t they the brave ones?  Adventurous?”

“Anyone can be brave -,”

“And I like the colour, too.  Red.”

“Servius – there’s far more to it than a colour.”  The possibility of Servius being in Gryffindor had never seriously crossed Snape’s mind.  It had seemed as natural as breathing to him that he’d be a Slytherin through and through.   He imagined Neville Longbottom’s smug face at the Sorting Ceremony… “I think you should consider the fact that I was – am - in Slytherin so I can tell you -,”

“Oh no,” said Mrs Burbage, who was standing nearby and shaking her head at hearing this.  “I’ve told Servius to stay away from Slytherin.”

Snape stood very upright.  “With all due respect, Mrs Burbage, on what grounds have you made that determination?”

“Well from what Candace told us, Slytherin is full of all the magic people that become criminals -,”

“She didn’t say that,” growled Mr Burbage impatiently.

“Well maybe not in so many words -!”

“That is a very old and unsubstantiated myth,” Snape rebutted. “Some of the finest wizards in history are graduates of Slytherin.  From what I know of Servius, I believe he would find it an excellent match, and furthermore, I will be able to keep a close eye on him.”

All three of them gazed back at Snape and he could tell they thought his insistence rather odd.  Mrs Burbage let her gaze hold a moment longer, then turned to Servius and hugged him closely.  “It’s just a House, Servius, you know for sports teams and things.  It doesn’t matter that much.  Now!  Are you ready to get on the train?”

Servius scowled and Mrs Burbage nodded.  “Then say goodbye to Pa.  Big hug!  There you go. Now you be good!  D’you hear?  Best behaviour.  Your father will be watching and he’ll be very unhappy if you don’t behave.  And don’t forget, your Mum is watching too.  She’ll be so proud, my love.”

Mrs Burbage pulled out a hanky from her voluminous tote and started dabbing her eyes and, obviously dreading a scene, Servius made determinedly for a carriage door.  Just then, Snape saw a trio of boys all dressed in Slytherin uniforms walking along the platform, who looked to be only a couple of years older than Servius. 

“Boys!  You, boys!” he ordered, summoning them over.  They stared at him, and Snape realised that they didn’t know who he was.  “I am Professor Snape, Potions Master and Deputy.  Now come directly or it’ll be five points off each!”

Eyebrows shot up and the three students hurried over.  Probably they’d heard his name before.

“This is Servius.  He’s first year.  I want you to find a carriage where he can sit with you - ,”

“But sir, we’re Prefects -,”

“And so?  Then find him a first-year carriage.  But I want you to keep an eye on him, understand?  He’s a very important passenger.”

The three Slytherins looked at Servius, who glared back at them only seconds away from throwing punches.  “He’s…new to all this,” Snape explained gamely.

The three boys met Snape’s eyes and seemed to understand.  “Yes sir.  We’ll keep him company sir,” said the tallest of them.

“Your name?” Snape asked, thinking it might help to know at least one of the students.

“Tattinger, sir.”

Snape glanced at him again and looked more closely, recognising the name at once.  “Tattinger?  Are you related to…what was his name…?”

“Euclid Tattinger?   He’s my older brother sir,” said the boy.

“Yes. Euclid.  Papus be praised.  I see the resemblance now.” Although in truth, there wasn’t.  Hufflepuff Euclid had been somewhat puny and sheepish the whole time Snape had known him.  This lad was well built and confident.

“He talked about you sir,” said the boy. 

That could have meant one of a hundred things.  Seeing as the boy was in Slytherin, he decided the stories home might have been favourable.  Might have been.  “Ah.  I see.  Very good. All right, everyone on board then.”

The three Slytherins mounted the train behind Servius just as the whistle blew again.  “Last call to board!” hollered the conductor, who then blew his own whistle.  The people on the platform scrambled and students all along its five-carriage length jostled through the doors.  The escaped owl flew back and forth overhead, no doubt breaking some poor student’s heart.  There was yet a chance it would find its way to Hogwarts eventually.

Snape stepped back on the platform beside Mr and Mrs Burbage and they looked for a window from which Servius might wave to them, but he had disappeared.  Snape’s hope was that the Slytherins were settling him in, subliminally initiating him into the coils of the serpent, excising any of those jaundiced opinions Peacock had passed on.  She must have been a Gryffindor.

Even though Servius was not visible, Mrs Burbage waved at the train that had blown its final whistle, snorted a great plume of steam and began a slow and steady chunt north.  Children spilled from the carriage windows, waving.  “I can’t believe it,” said Mrs Burbage, shaking her head.  “I still can’t believe Charity isn’t here to see it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Back at Hogwarts, Snape attended to a hundred and one small tasks and duties assigned by McGonagall to ensure the start of term was smooth.  More than smooth, she wanted to make it memorable for the first years, a warm welcome, offer some assurance to the students that, while it might be a school, it was also their home for the time being.  She was hot under the collar about the builders, however.  “Severus, have you organised that meeting between the builders and the MoM I asked for?  I want that arranged no later than next week,” she huffed as together they walked up the Dungeon stairs after visiting the Slytherin Common Room.  “The money’s running out.  And they haven’t even started on the roof.  Honestly, how hard can it be?”

Snape hadn’t even thought about the meeting.  “Yes Ma’am,” he murmured, kicking himself for forgetting.

“Oh – can you make sure there’s an empty portrait in the Great Hall for the feast – Dumbledore mentioned he’d like to observe the arrivals.  He’s done that a few times.”

“Certainly.”

They marched up the marble staircase.  “Don’t forget that in the first few weeks of term you’ll need to organise Head Boy and Girl elections.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” A discreet sigh.

“Also, set up a time to meet with me about getting that magical portrait artist in, what’s his name?” said McGonagall, as they strode along first floor, waving her wand about like a baton. 

“I don’t recall….”

“I’m thinking of getting a portrait of Horace done.  For the Common Room.  And while the artist is here, he can have a look at yours.”

“Mine?”

“I haven’t taken it down, Severus, and I don’t think I shall,” she said firmly, “but we do need to animate it, give it some consciousness.  The artist knows how to do that.”

Snape’s brow contracted, genuinely confused.  “But why Ma’am?”

She came to an abrupt halt and rested the tip of her wand in her left hand as she appraised Snape.  “Severus, don’t be coy.  I shan’t be Headmistress here forever.  As it is, I think it’s putting me in an early grave.  Since you’re Deputy, and in view of the inevitable corollary to my retirement, you should start the education of your portrait now.  Dumbledore’s had decades of learning.  You can start while I’m in London.”

She recommenced her brisk walk, and Snape, head spinning, belatedly caught up.  He was about to argue the point with her when they were apprehended by Benedict Hellmann.

“Headmistress!” declared the DADA Professor, walking towards them.  “I vonted a quick word if I may?”

“Benedict, of course.  I wouldn’t mind a tour of your classroom before the end of today if you don’t mind?”

“Yes Ma’am.  Ah, the reason I wanted to speak is with regards to my daughter, Amelie.  I mentioned at our staff meeting a couple of weeks ago that I sought an exception for her in the Sorting Ceremony -,”

“Yes, I do remember,” said McGonagall rather primly.

“Well, since I have been on the site here, and I have learned much more about the Hogvorts, I think I would like Amelie to participate in the ceremony after all.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose and she glanced at Snape.  “Well, certainly; she should join the new arrivals before the feast this evening.  Professor Snape will be overseeing the Sorting.”

“Ah.  That is convenient.  Professor Snape, could you please see to it that Amelie is sorted into Slytherin?” said Hellmann to him directly.

Snape blinked.  “I’m afraid it has nothing to do with me.  The Hat makes the decision.  It may consult the child.” 

“Why does everybody want to be in Slytherin all of a sudden?” said McGonagall, clearly recalling her conversation with Snape earlier.

“You mean the parents have no influence votsoever?” said Hellmann.  “But how can she possibly know what she wants?”

A short silence descended, and Snape’s mind turned to Servius on his Hogwarts carriage, hopefully deep in conversation with some impressive Slytherins.

“Professor Hellmann,” said McGonagall after clearing her throat.  “Are you sure you’re not underestimating Amelie?  Is she conversant with all the Houses?  And if not, rest assured, the Hat has been dependably Sorting for hundreds of years.”

“I have particular reason in selecting Slytherin for her,” replied Hellmann.  “It has the value system most resembling my own and that of Durmstrang - ,”

“– well the old Durmstrang perhaps –,”

“I think also Amelie will get the proper supervision she needs in Slytherin.  I am not certain zat Professors Oosthuizen or Longbottom demonstrate quite the level of…discipline…she is accustomed to.”

Snape raised a brow, privately rather applauding this assessment; McGonagall, however, looked stung.

“May I speak with zis Hat?” asked Hellmann imperiously.

“I’m afraid not!” retorted McGonagall, eyes blazing.  “I regret having to take a firm position on this, Professor, but you and Amelie are now a part of the Hogwarts system which includes all its policies and procedures.  Amelie will be Sorted as per tradition, and it will be between herself and the Hat.  I do caution you about making Amelie feel singled out amongst the student body – my experience has shown the new children like to fit in as much as possible.”

Hellmann looked at her coolly through the shielding glass of his spectacles, then nodded once and said, “Ma’am,” before turning on his heel smartly and walking back the way he’d come.

McGonagall and Snape watched him leave for a moment or two, then she turned to Snape and muttered, “Merlin’s slippers, Severus, he’s worse than you!”

 

* * *

 

Later, Snape took a moment to slip into the Archive / Slytherin Common Room by himself and he sat down on one of the leather-bound chairs, lifting his feet up on to the table (something he strictly forbade the students from doing) and rested his head back.  He’d been going non-stop for hours.  The room was peaceful and dark and, as ever, something about it was soothing.   

He wished he’d had time to visit the Archive in its previous form after he’d had his memories restored.  His head was full of them now, and the peculiar draw he’d had to the place was quite apparent to him.  He waited to feel Charity’s presence, and his mind turned to the possibility of Servius feeling her too, if he was in this room.

 _What if he’s not?_ Snape asked himself, for the first time able to reflect on events on the train platform.  _In a matter of hours, your son could be in Gryffindor_.

Did it matter?  Was it wrong of him to impose his will so forcibly if the Hat prioritised personality over bloodlines?

He held a kernel of genuine concern about Servius and Neville Longbottom – Snape was certain Longbottom would view a Gryffindor sorting as an opportunity to exercise some karmic retribution.  But more at the heart of it, he reflected, was a fear of the past reoccurring.  He had watched Lily be sorted into Gryffindor and that, he was quite convinced, had been the beginning of the end of their friendship.  The Hat’s decision had informed him that he and Lily weren’t quite as like-minded as he’d wanted to believe, and that her placement amongst others more like herself was proof of what he’d always quietly feared: she’d only been lured to him by what he represented, not who he was as a person.  During the Ceremony, with the Hat on her head, had Lily expressed any personal desire of her own about where she wanted to be placed?  Had she mentioned Slytherin?  Or had she been quite willing to be placed away from Snape; now he’d brought her to the front door of Hogwarts? Had she, all told, been quite prepared to make her own way?  The Marauders had sensed it and merely set about finishing an ailing, irredeemable hope like rogue lions overtaking a pride - but it was the Sorting Ceremony that had severed them. 

He didn’t want that to happen with Servius.  His relationship with his own son was far more tenuous than his and Lily’s, and he hadn’t been able to save that.  It was not impossible that Servius would pick another House just to spite him.

He closed his eyes.  _Charity?_ he inquired into the room, into the universe. _My love?_   Not a word had passed his lips.  While he knew that ghosts in the wizarding world were disembodied spirits, what he was less sure about was whether it was possible to communicate with someone who’d left the world of the living, who no longer haunted, who had, presumably, gone to wherever peaceful souls went after death.  And so he sent out the question more out of instinct than a true knowledge or with any real expectation.  But he knew she was a scientist, and if she was out there that her own curiosity if nothing else would compel her to explore the realms of possibility.  She hated sides, hated borders – she would be driven to experiment with what the metaphysical universe would or would not do.  And if she could be reached, this was the room that had the connection.

But nothing happened.  Nothing he could prove was her responding, at least.  He felt slightly warmer, but that could have been his own faint embarrassment at trying to talk to a dead woman.  Admonishing himself, he stood and went through to inspect  the dormitories.

 

* * *

 

Evening rolled around, only discernible by the deep slanting of shadows as it would not be properly dark until after 8pm.  Starlings commenced their noisy roosting in the uppermost branches of the Forbidden Forest.  From the vantage point at the top of a castle tower, a person looking north would notice a paling in the colour of the trees, that the stately poplars edging the neighbouring farmland was yellowing; oaks and maples blushing.  If the viewer turned south, they might also spy the trailing plume of smoke from the stack of the Hogwarts Express as it neared the end of its journey, the retiring sun glinting off the steel and glass, the smoke marking its passage as it disappeared behind cuttings.

On the train itself, Servius had changed into his uniform, warned by the conductor that Hogsmeade Station was imminent, and now returned to his carriage where he shoved his Muggle clothes into his bag. 

“Better change your shoes as well,” said the boy with whom he’d struck up an awkward conversation for the second half of the trip.  The first half he’d spent sullenly staring out of the window or poking at Tāne in his cage.

The boy sharing his compartment – along with a handful of others, but Servius hadn’t talked to them – was also a first-year and also Muggle raised.  In appearance he was Asian in descent but British born and schooled, and his name was William Huan.  They’d struck up a conversation because William was sitting directly opposite him, his owl’s cage swinging from a hook near the window, but also because he’d started taking apart his mobile phone right there on his lap and Servius couldn’t quite believe it.  It transpired that Huan wanted to know why his phone no longer had any life at all – not just a lack of reception, but had gone completely dead – and thought there might be clues in the phone’s innards.  There wasn’t.   But it had been a conversation starter.

“My school shoes are in my big suitcase.  I’ll just leave my trainers on,” said Servius.

“They look really obvious.”

“Ooh.  Maybe they’ll send me home,” said Servius with a grin.  Then scoffed: “What difference do my shoes make?”

“If they don’t send you home, what will you try next?”

“I dunno.  What gets you expelled?  Swearing?  Fighting? Breaking stuff?”

“There was a kid at my school who got expelled because he kept showing his balls to the girls,” Huan informed him, looking very serious, but then smiled wickedly.  Servius laughed and tossed him a Fizzing Whizzbee.

The door to the compartment suddenly slid open with a startling bang and the first years within jumped.  It was the three Slytherin Prefects from the train station again.  Earlier, they’d brought spare sweets from the Honeydukes lady, explained Chocolate Frog cards and the correct way to eat Exploding Bon Bons, then told the newbies about Honeydukes itself, as well as the legend that a tunnel existed somewhere in the castle that could take you straight to the shop underground.  There was for a while afterward a degree of energy in the compartment as all the passengers chatted about their sweets and swap-cards, and it was universally, if slightly grudgingly, agreed that magical sweets definitely had the upper hand on Muggle sweets, even, and including, the ones containing insects.

“You all ready lads?” asked the older boys, Tattinger’s eyes scanning Servius up and down.  “Where’re your shoes?”

“These’re fine.”

“Nope.  Shoes on, Servius.  Uniform please.”

“What difference does it make?”

Tattinger raised his brows archly.  “Professor Snape left me in charge and I’m not about to piss him off.  So get your shoes on.”

Servius resentfully rose and went through the carriages to the luggage compartment, followed by Tattinger.  Here the chugging of the train was almost deafening.  His case had been stored on the supplied racks and was buried amongst dozens of others and he started to pull cases aside, searching for his own. 

“Has it got a label?” Tattinger asked, and when Servius confirmed it did, he began his own search.  Presently Tattinger dragged forth the big, leather case that had belonged to Charity and said, “I think this is it.”  Then he looked levelly at Servius.

Servius looked back, slightly frowning.  “What?”

“Who are you?”

“Why?”

Tattinger pulled the case free and dropped it onto the floor between them, then held up the label.  “It says Servius _Snape_.  That you?”

 

* * *

 

As had been the journey of hundreds of first years before him, Servius and his carriage-full of student peers were deposited at Hogsmeade Station and they were all met by Hagrid on the platform who hollered: “Firs’ years!  Over to me!  Firs’ years!”

The youngsters all gathered and gazed like awe-struck sheep.  Tattinger was trailing Servius and when they were in proximity to Hagrid, Tattinger said to him: “This is Servius Snape.  I was told he’s a very important passenger, thought you might like to know.”

Hagrid looked down his ample frame at Servius, and all the other first years looked at him as well.  Servius, carrying his owl, looked as if he’d just been dunked headfirst in scalding water.  “Thass right, I know ‘bout Servius.  Welcome to ‘Ogwarts Master Snape.”

Hagrid waited for a smile of greeting, but when Servius stared at Hagrid’s boots and nothing more, the Gatekeeper chuckled, “Jus’ like yer father was.”  Then he jangled his enormous ring of keys and shouted: “Let’s get on.  FOLLOW ME.”

He guided them to Hogwarts across the lake, the self-sailing boats reflected in the water like a small battalion about to descend into the fray, the setting sun behind them alighting the castle stone on fire, golden rays cast off the ironwork in the Astronomy Tower.  The students were mute as their boats were absorbed into the shadow of the cliff and the dark reflection of the fortress.  For the Muggle-born and raised amongst them, the sight of their new school and home was a harbinger of just how strange and wonderful their world was about to become, that nothing would ever be the same again, and that whatever had come before had been merely the precursor for this moment in their lives.

Hagrid enjoyed this moment immensely.  It was a distinct pleasure that went with the job of Gatekeeper.  He never tired of the ingenuousness, the open mouths, watching all the pretence and brashness of modern-day adolescence evaporate into the ephemera from whence it came.  He affected an air of a long-suffering, business-like warden as he shepherded them from one place to another, but privately he delighted in their slightly chocolatey youthfulness and promise-filled faces.

He took them up the stone steps to the Middle Courtyard in a file of two across, carrying over his shoulder one girl who had burst into overwhelmed tears, and ushered them towards the massive, oak front doors.  Placing down the girl, he went up before the huddle of first years and, with a backward glance and a smile, he banged the iron knocker three times.  A sea of heads turned to the door and eyes widened again as it swung open.

Severus Snape stood before them, shrouded in his black cloak.


	16. The Sorting

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” said Snape, pokerfaced, his voice subdued so that every child held their breath to hear him, hardly daring to blink in case this tall, swarthy wizard metamorphosed into a vampire or similar when they weren’t looking.  He was standing very erect, his arms folded, and his black eyes grazed over each upturned face as if they were all a distinctly unsatisfactory in their crude form.  When they reached Servius, however, and he lingered a moment, indulging a split second of amazement at having his own flesh and blood standing on the stoop of Hogwarts, his son stared back, and Snape couldn’t help a twitch at the corner of his mouth.  Servius alone was skeptical and defiant, having seen his father in a bank queue, wiping up owl droppings and apologizing to pub patrons.  The mystique no longer worked.  Snape privately noted he’d have to get the respect some other way.

“Follow me in an orderly fashion,” instructed Snape to the group, turning sharply so his cloak was forced to swirl and flap behind him as he stalked off across the Entrance Hall.  The first years followed, some with a backward glance at Hagrid who, playing along, hurried them with his hands and warning eyes.

They crossed the flagstones of the Entrance and passed the doors of the Great Hall from which emanated the din of returned students about to feast.  Flashes of laughter, light, warmth and pleasant smells captured the attention of the tired and flustered first years, but they couldn’t pause for fear of losing sight of the Scary Wizard, who clipped along so steadily his cloak scarcely touched the ground.  Snape reached an arched door off the Hall which he opened, and the boys and girls were shown into a chamber, and here they gathered, huddled, while Snape shut the door with a resounding thunk.  He then turned to them.

“My name is Professor Snape,” he began a little theatrically, hands on his hips.  Several sets of eyes glanced at Servius upon hearing this. “You can call me Professor Snape, Professor, or sir.  I am the Deputy Headmaster and I am also your Potions Master.  The Headmistress, for those who don’t know, is Professor McGonagall.  _You_ are now all students of Hogwarts – during the day, during the night, on weekends, you are students here.  You will become wizards and witches.  If you are efficacious, studious, obedient and willing, you will do extremely well.  Hogwarts has produced thousands of Europe’s finest, we don’t intend to change that record with you. _If_ , however, you think you have nothing to learn, if you think the rules don’t apply to you, if you think you are somehow more special than everyone else – then you may do extremely badly.  When that happens, you will deal with me.  Or worse, your House.

“Which brings me to Houses…hands down, questions later.  There are four.  You will be sorted into the House that suits you best.  In a moment, in the Great Hall, you will be called to sit at a chair and I will place a sorting hat on your head and the hat will decide the House to which you belong.”

There was tittering.  Snape paused and glared at the direction of the laughter and the two girls responsible froze, then became fascinated with their feet.

“It amuses you?  If I were you, I would be taking it very seriously indeed.  The House into which you are sorted becomes your home.  You will eat and sleep with your House.  You will learn with your House, compete alongside your Housemates against the other Houses.  When you do well, you earn points for your House, and when you do wrong, so too will points from your House be taken away.  At the end of the year, the House with the most points earns the Cup.  This is prestigious.  Once you are sorted into a House, most Housemates take that allegiance _very seriously indeed_.”  Snape flashed a look at the two girls but needn’t have bothered – their knees were knocking.

There was a sudden and very deliberate banging on the Chamber door.  With a frown, Snape held up his hand at the group of first years to silence them then went to the door and opened it.  Outside was Hagrid and next to him, a girl in uniform with blond hair pulled into an austere plait, thin-rimmed glasses and cool blue eyes.  “Hagrid?” asked Snape, glancing at the girl, but then he remembered.

“Sorry to innerrupt Professor Snape – I ‘ave a late arrival -,”

“Miss Hellmann,” said Snape, vaguely recalling her accompanying her mother and Professor Hellmann.  “Ah yes.  Please come in.”

Amelie entered the room and regarded the others staring at her as if they were rather disagreeable animals at a zoo.  Then she went to a far corner and stood there alone.

She was right behind Servius and William Huan.  Out in front, Snape continued his speech about the Sorting Hat process, and while he wasn’t looking, Amelie took up her pale wand and poked Servius in the back with it.

“Ow!  What the -?” Servius swung round.

“Is he your Dad?” she asked quietly, flicking her eyes in the direction of Snape.

“No.  Yeah. Maybe.  How’d you know? What’s it to you?’

“Your name label on your collar is sticking out.  Also, my Dad said you would be here. My Dad is a teacher at Hogwarts too.  He teaches Dark Arts.”

Servius instantly shoved his label in, cursing under his breath.

“I thought it was _Defence Against_ the Dark Arts,” said William, who had, since the train, stuck closely with Servius and asked him a thousand questions on the lake about why he was a special passenger. William now considered Servius a friend, and ergo their troubles were shared. “What’s your accent?”

Amelie looked William up and down.  “What’s yours?”

“English.  Yours is German isn’t it?  So your _farter_ teaches Dark Arts?” William snickered and Servius did too, giving William a discreet high-five.

There was a pale flare of green light as Amelie casually pointed her wand and hexed William, and the children nearby who saw it jumped away.  Snape paused from talking, noticing a disturbance and a tell-tale flash of green.  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

William abruptly doubled over, clutching his stomach.  Then his eyes popped and he cried: “Toilets?  Where are the toilets?” and dashed to the door.

Irritation flared in Snape at the interruption, but William had broken out in a sweat and was groaning.  Quickly Snape opened the door and stepped out into the Entrance Hall to point William in the direction of the nearest facilities.

When he came back in, he threaded his way through the huddle of students, glowering at Servius and Amelie.  “What just happened?”

Amelie instantly pointed at Servius and said, “I saw him hex that boy, sir.”

“WHAT?” yelled Servius, astounded.  “She’s lying!  _She_ hexed him!”

Snape allowed ten seconds of uncomfortable silence while he flicked his eyes back and forth between the pair, resting on Servius.  “Well we’ll just ask him when he returns.”  He then raised his voice and addressed the group as a whole: “Hexing, jinxing, dueling and using wands outside of controlled environment is strictly forbidden! I don’t care how many tricks you think you’ve learnt, any one of you caught using your wand inappropriately will have it confiscated and serve detention.  Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes sir,” mumbled the group. 

It was time to go through for the Sorting Ceremony, but there was no sign of William.  “One more minute then we get started.  Tidy yourselves up, you’ll be out there in front of the whole school.  You want your Housemates’ first impression of you to be a good one….wait here.”

A low hubbub of conversation started amongst the students as Snape went outside and shut the door behind him. He marched to the toilet block and went inside looking for the shut cubicle.  There was only one, and groans issued forth.  “You in there – what’s your name?”

“Huan, sir.  William Huan.”

“How do you feel?  I mean, are you feeling better or..?”

“Horrible sir.  I don’t think I can leave…”  _Groan…_. “Ah God, we ate so many chocolates…some had slugs in them I think…”

“I see,” it was impossible to stop a droll smile.  “I will send a nurse.  Ah…who hexed you?  Servius or -,”

“The girl, sir.”

“The incantation?  By which I mean: the words she used?”

“I don’t know sir; she didn’t say anything.”  The groans being broadcast seemed to originate from the depths of the boy’s boots.

A non-verbal, perfectly executed hex – so definitely not Servius.  Snape raised his brows. But Amelie would need to face some consequences for this: this boy was about to miss the Sorting Ceremony, a pivotal moment in every Hogwartian’s memory.  And further, the incident had made them late.

“Right.  A nurse will be in to see you with a cure.”  Snape left the toilets and from there went into Great Hall, hastening between tables and up the steps to the teacher’s dais.  McGonagall ushered him over as soon as she saw him with raised, enquiring brows.  “Sick child,” he uttered briefly.  “He may have to sit the Sorting Hat separately.  I’m sending Poppy to deal with him.”

Pomfrey looked alarmed at his approach, but once he explained the situation, she hurried out behind him and went urgently to the toilet block.  Snape himself returned to the chamber where all the first years were waiting, now being diverted by the arrival of the House ghosts although, he observed, the Muggleborns-and-raised looked more startled and afraid then strictly entertained.  He searched for Servius, who was scowling and standing broadside to Amelie, clearly unprepared to turn his back on her, but also unable to tear his eyes away from Nearly Headless Nick who was demonstrating his hinged neck.

“Right.  It’s time to go through!  I want you to line up in single file and follow me.”  Much scurrying of students ensued, and Snape trooped them out and towards the Great Hall.  He led them through the length of the Hall with its thousand glowing candles, hundreds of eyes watching them from the tables, and to the space before the dais with its table of seated teachers, Dumbledore behind them all from his temporary portrait hung on the wall.  Snape gave cursory instructions for the students to stand where they were and wait for their name to be called, then went up on the platform to take his place beside the Sorting Hat stool. On the stool presided the Hat itself.  Like everything else, it was showing the literal wear and tear of age: the brim was misshapen where the fire had permanently damaged it.

McGonagall then rose from her regal chair and a hush settled on the Great Hall.  She stepped up to her flying owl lectern and smiled at the students.  They gazed back, absorbed in her cloak, her wonderful pointed hat, her dignified and lofty demeanour.  “Welcome to Hogwarts for the two-thousand and six academic year.  We are delighted to have you all with us – so many new faces and just as many returning.  I can see just by looking at you that you are all going to make very fine witches and wizards.”  Her eyes looked tired, but they saw perfectly well, and when they rested on Servius’s face, she paused.  “Welcome.  Welcome back, welcome all.”

Perhaps the realization of Servius before her prompted McGonagall to say: “Beside me, for those who are unaware, is Professor Snape. He returns to Hogwarts this year after a long sabbatical – some of you in sixth and seventh year may recall his name.  He was Headmaster here during the war.”

Snape hadn’t expected the introduction and stood silently and still while a sudden surge of chatter breezed across the Hall like a brushfire. It was impossible to interpret the tenor or mood of this reaction, and when he looked down at the gathering of first years, he discovered many of the children staring at him, and just as many nudging each other and then pointing.  Servius was in his typical attitude of frowning, and brushing off nosy neighboring students.

“Professor Snape is my Deputy and is also Potions Master this year, which I will discuss in more detail during announcements,” continued McGonagall.  Before her on the lectern was a scroll of parchment which she handed to Snape.  “Many of you will now be familiar with the Sorting Ceremony.  Once it’s complete, we will be ready to feast.  But until then, those of you in your Houses – be ready to make your novitiates feel part of your family, greet them warmly, take them into the fold and help them find their feet.  You each had your turn – I expect you to pass it along in good Hogwarts fashion.  Professor Snape…Hat – it is time for the Sorting.”

The Hat sang its song (a reasonably upbeat version) and then Snape began proceedings by reading alphabetically from the list of names, watching as the children stumbled up the steps to the stool, their faces ashen.  It had been a very long and emotional day for these young lads and lasses – saying goodbye to their friends and families, a long train ride with strangers, arriving to the vastness of the Castle and now being expected to sit in front of a Hall full of unfamiliar people while an odd, singing Hat read their mind: it was a wonder that half of them didn’t faint from pure stress.  And yet each year, the tradition played out, and duly would a hundred or so new children be assigned to their Houses, the proportions to each four amazingly equal all things considered.

Retta Antwork into Hufflepuff.  Edwin Bartrop into Gryffindor, Tiberius Black into Slytherin (distantly related?  undoubtedly), Amity Campbell into Hufflepuff, Tom Cheng and Fergus Christie both into Ravenclaw.  The sorting went on and on; through the alphabet they went.  Snape watched them all endure the Hat, and sometimes the decision was instantaneous, and sometimes it dithered. It had always been the same but the respective House tables cheered with each freshman, since for that child, it was a first and last sorting in their school history.

 Amelie Hellmann was, unsurprisingly, sorted into Slytherin.  Snape watched her smartly remove the Hat after the pronouncement was made and march off the podium to the Slytherin table as if the whole business had been a very inconvenient dental procedure.  The second and third years moved up the benchseat to make room for her, but the welcome she received was more bewildered than warm and she simply ignored those beside her.

By the S’s, Snape found his interest renewed.  There was a Suranthi Sitlani into Hufflepuff and a John Shinsui into Gryffindor.  Then Ackley Shrew and Samuel Small both got sorted into Slytherin.

Snape consulted his parchment as he did for each new name, but he knew who was next – it was the first name on the list he’d looked for.  With a peculiar, nervous twinge he read out: “Snape, Servius,” and then felt heat rise up the back of his neck.  He was glad his voice sounded normal and he affected to look neutral, even diffident, as his son made his way through the remaining students to mount the stairs.  Servius was less circumspect.  With nothing to prove to anyone, with the judgement of others a matter of singular indifference to him, he glared at his father in passing as if the ensuing humiliation was all Snape’s fault, and took his place at the stool.  The thunderous expression notwithstanding, Snape was struck anew at Servius’s brooding good looks and wondered if parenthood somehow blinded you to the reality of your offspring’s appearance.  He couldn’t help but cast a quick glance at Sinistra, who was seated with the other teachers, wearing her velvet robe and witch’s hat, now that it had become apparent which child was his.  But she was staring at Servius, staring hard as if somehow trying to imprint him on her retinas.

 _Please sort him into Slytherin_ , thought Snape as he picked up the Hat, and then aimed himself a mental blow.  _No. It doesn’t matter.  He’ll always be your son, you will not lose him_.  And then, despite himself, _If not Slytherin, at least Ravenclaw?_

The Hat was placed on Servius’s head and set to work.   It was one of the thoughtful, more prolonged decisions.  Snape watched apprehensively as the Hat considered his son.

“There’s a lot of anger here,” said the Hat in its small voice to Servius.  “Is this anger that can be turned to good, turned productive, turned to effectiveness I wonder?  Perhaps the Gryffindors will help you turn this negative energy into something you and the school can be proud of?”

 _Don’t care_ , thought Servius.

“Rejection, rebellion, a determination to ruin things?  Perhaps the Hufflepuffs will help you remember all the things to be grateful for,” said the Hat.

 _Whatever_.

“You’re not the first child to be arrogant.  You perhaps believe you are smarter than the rest of us? You certainly have a lot of intelligence…perhaps Ravenclaw would put you to use?”

_How about we get this over with?  The choice is obvious._

The Hat bided a moment.  “There is one last House that I see shadows of everywhere in here.  And this is the House that will put you in your place.  You’ll find your ranking in this House, Master Snape, and, if you can use it wisely, you’ll be on the path to greatness.  Better be SLYTHERIN!”

The last words were announced clearly and for general ears and struggling to conceal his relief, Snape whipped off the Hat to find Servius looking up at him with a sly grin.  The Slytherins erupted into applause and whoops and cheers, which caused all the teachers to raise perplexed brows. When Snape glanced at Slughorn, he received a smile and a wink in return.  The other House tables were a bit nonplussed at this reception as well, but Tattinger and the other Prefects at Slytherin had grins the size of watermelon slices and they bunched up on the benchseats to make a space for Servius.  Amelie observed all this with barely disguised disdain.

Without another look at his father, Servius strolled off the podium, down the stairs and made his way to the Slytherin table where he was received with backslaps, high fives, fist-bumps and various other teenage gestures which he reciprocated with utter complacency.  Snape looked to Sinistra again, who met his eyes with a bewildered – but cautiously optimistic – expression of her own.

As the noise subsided, Snape cleared his throat and returned to his parchment.  “Uh, Solomon, Llewellyn?”

Poor Llewellyn.  If the previous performance hadn’t been discouraging enough, the progress to the stairs for the plump, curly-headed blond boy – who looked like one half of Tweedledum and Tweedledee - was cut short by sudden shouting from the door to the Entrance Hall.

“Wait!  Wait!” William Huan, followed by Madam Pomfrey, came hurtling down the aisle between the tables.  “I want to be Sorted!  Don’t forget me!”

Pomfrey gave Snape a discreet thumbs-up.

“Wait there,” said Snape, hand up, then nodded at Llewellyn.  “Solomon – up here, quick smart.”

Solomon was sorted perfunctorily into Ravenclaw, then Snape told William Huan to take the stool.  Huan virtually ran onto the stage and plonked his bottom down, back very straight, and Snape placed the Hat onto his head with reservation.

Presently the Hat shouted: “Slytherin!” and Huan was beaming.

“Huh,”remarked Snape in surprise, and the applause from Slytherin was slightly more muted, but Servius gave the boy a big, cheesy grin.

 

When the Sorting Ceremony was finally complete, the feasting commenced.  Snape put the Hat safely out of harm’s way and took a seat at the teacher’s table next to McGonagall to have a bite and discreetly watch Servius amongst the other Slytherins.

“Well, well,” commented McGonagall as she scooped beans onto her plate. She seemed to be concentrating very hard on her spoon. “A strapping young lad you have there.  He is a chip off the old block, I must say, I’m surprised you needed a birth certificate as evidence.”

Snape looked at her, gathered his thoughts and then said: “Ma’am, I regret I haven’t informed you sooner.  I have recently undertaken a procedure to have all my removed memories reinstated.  All such matters which I previously denied – well, I now realise have substance.  My intention by removing them was to ensure Voldemort could never determine the truth and thereby ensure Charity’s safety, however – well it did more to save my life than hers, as it turned out.  The unforeseen consequences now take the shape of Servius and his overt contempt of me and Hogwarts altogether.  I suspect – I fear - I am inadequate to the task.”

McGonagall listened to all this in amazement.  Then after a pause during which she took a long sip of wine, she said, “Well I’m glad you decided to finally tell me.  You must also tell me one day how one goes about putting memories back in their head.  But as for Servius – we discussed this, did we not?  Nobody knows how to be a parent until they become one.  And relationships are not glass – they are not irreparable.  They are…fluid…and…oh I can’t remember the words,” she muttered irritably.  “Modern nonsense Concetta was talking about the other day.  What I’m trying to say, Severus, is don’t give up before you’ve even begun.  That isn’t in your nature.”

Snape again glanced over at Servius who was eating and talking and grinning like every other student in the room.

“Besides, from what I saw during the sorting, you’d better watch out that laddie doesn’t get one up on you.”

“Ma’am?”

“Did you happen to notice how long the Hat took?  It was a stall. It’s because your child has  complex personality – there’s more than one dimension that it has to weigh up.  You’ll need your wits about you, that much you can count on.”

 

* * *

 

After the feast, came the announcements, the introductions and the notices.  Tired heads around the tables were starting to nod, eyelids droop, and the children began to wish they were at home and could crawl into their own beds.  But they had to go to their dorms.  And for those who had never boarded before, this was yet another hurdle to overcome.

The Slytherins were taken by Slughorn to the Archive Common Room.  The temporary arrangements had been explained by McGonagall during her announcements, so the older students followed with as much curiosity as the first years.  The Archive Door had been magicked with password protection which Slughorn gave to them all, and then he guided them through.

The older students were impressed with how much the Archive now resembled their original Common Room, and the first years simply stared around them, none of them having seen anything like it.  Fires roared in their grates and sconces flickered ambiently and a couple of seventh-years collapsed onto the soft leather sofa.

Seeing an absorbed Servius, Tattinger said to him: “The proper Common Room is under the lake and there are windows into the water.  It’s amazing.  But this is a pretty good replica.”

“Like Underwater World?” asked William.  “Can you see sharks and stuff?”

“It’s freshwater.  The _lake_.”

“So what then?  Carp?”

“The squid sometimes,” retorted Tattinger defensively. “The mer-people.”

“Squid?” Servius in disbelief.  “Mer-people?”

“Like I said; it’s amazing.”

Slughorn gave them all a few minutes to wander around the room, then ushered them through to the dorms where they were to select bunks.  Being Slytherins, almost all of them wanted top bunk, so Slughorn eventually had a coin-flipping process put into effect and in due course beds were assigned and personal belongings placed nearby.  All owls had been taken by elves to the owlery, which upset Servius because he desperately wanted to check on Tāne, but he kept it to himself.

As Servius crawled into his bottom-bunk (William was on top) in this strange, inexplicable place, surrounded by people he barely knew, he tried not to hear their idiosyncratic settling and sleeping noises, the persistent thudding of suitcase lids being open and shut, the hushed laughter when some boy farted, the constant complaint of bedsprings creaking.  He put his head under his pillow and kept his wand in easy reach, quite prepared to use it on anybody who tried to approach him during the night: the dinner-time conversation had been dominated by stories of various creatures and criminals that surrounded the castle inside and out. 

In his other hand was a picture of his mother that he’d been given when he was five.  The image was difficult to make out, there had been so many creases and folds in it.  But she looked so loving in the picture it never failed to cheer him.  He yearned for his own room, his own things, his own friends and felt a hot lump rise up in his throat.  _“…furthermore, I can keep an eye on you…”_ his father had said once he got into Slytherin.  Well here he was, ready to be decked out in emerald tomorrow, and frankly, the way he was feeling right now, he’d even take a comforting word from that arsehole.

“Lights out!” announced a Prefect, and with a swipe of a wand, the gaslamps were turned off.  Only one or two small candle-sconces flickered near the doors, otherwise it was black – not even a window to permit the light of the near full-moon.

Excited chatter became murmuring and murmurs gave way to snoring but Servius lay awake, hearing William sleeping above him, his incessant tossing and turning having finally ceased.  He had almost slipped into an exhausted sleep himself when he heard talking near the entrance to the dorms.  It was muted, the conversers obviously conscious that the children needed their rest, but Servius could hear enough to detect Slughorn’s voice.

“What a shame!  You should have dropped by a bit earlier – it was lights out about ten minutes ago.”

“I couldn’t make my excuses.  As it is, I’ve left McGonagall with a pile of work.” His father’s deep tones.  “Since I’m here, you may need to have a word with Amelie Hellmann.  She hexed another student before the Sorting Ceremony.”

“Oh indeed?  I see…uh, very well.  Now, light your wand but dim, Severus, don’t want to be waking any of them.”

Servius listened intently as soft footfalls sounded through the dormitory.  Peeking out from under his pillow, he could make out the dim light of a wand-tip hastily illuminating each sleeping face.  He was torn, his immediate impulse was to dive back under the pillow, but instead he lay still, with his eyes shut, just enough of his visage showing to be discernable.

Presently the gentle light came close and he heard the footsteps stop beside his bed.  The light was steady for ten seconds or so, but no words were said.  Then so unexpectedly he almost jumped, Servius felt warm fingertips on his brow, the merest brush of a lock of hair, and then gone.  The light faded to black and he heard the rustle of his father’s cloak, followed by footsteps quietly but swiftly walking away.

 


	17. The Dysorientation

Week one at Hogwarts is orientation for the laden, weary first-years. In addition to the miles they covered walking around and outside the castle, the sheer volume and intensity of the information they were required to process left them dazed and fatigued.

The care of first-years during orientation was shared between each of the four House Heads and Prefects, with Concetta Cropper scheduling multiple private sessions for those who seemed to be having trouble adapting. Actual classes didn’t start until Wednesday; the Monday and Tuesday were set aside for navigating, team-building, and establishment of rules, regulations and timetables. McGonagall presided over one special orientation assembly in the Great Hall in which she explained the history and hierarchy of the school, from the Four Founders down through the Governors, educators, students and pointedly finishing at the bottom with themselves: the new arrivals. Various portraits and ghosts were employed to share this task, dramatically expatiating on historical events as they recalled it and each taking far too long. At the end, McGonagall encouraged the students to read _Hogwarts: A History (2001, updated edition)._

The students were issued with their own _Hogwarts Dossier_ in which they were to keep notes on all the important information they found out. These enchanted notebooks could only be opened by their owner and never ran out of pages, but the book was empowered to report to the Head of House any information placed in there which was contrary to House Rules or the Code of Conduct. Within the opening pages could be found the class timetable, a map and floorplan of the castle, the names of their teachers, where to go for various emergencies, care of owls, library use conditions, Filch’s rules, the points system, House Cup and similar. The extendable blank pages were meant for the owner to add all the other news and important stuff they worried might spill out of their ears as their heads brimmed to overflow.

Snape only glimpsed Servius twice over the next two days. It seemed every minute of the first-years’ time had been accounted for, and the one occasion Snape had passed the group in transit, along a corridor on fourth floor, and his eyes met with Servius’s walking in the opposite direction, Snape had almost halted the group. He wanted to talk to the boy. But the group had, on this occasion, been escorted by Neville Longbottom, and the Herbology Professor had given Snape the dead eye as they crossed paths, and so Snape had merely given Servius the slightest of nods.

The next occasion was early Wednesday morning in the Entrance Hall. Professor Oosthuizen had at some point, Snape discovered, started a running club which met most mornings at 6.30am in the courtyard. Awkwardly attired in a yellow tracksuit (she preferred yellow above almost every other colour), Oosthuizen marshalled students with brisk, shouty encouragements as they convened in their running shorts and House emblazoned sweaters, their coltish legs goosebumping in the cold morning air, and they would set off on either of two main circuits – one that followed the length of the cleared lake edge, or the other that aligned with the perimeter of the castle and took advantage of the many hills. By the time the run was over, she was invariably the last to arrive back, puffing and panting, her ample bosom heaving, her permanent smile bright against the rosy balls of her cheeks from the exertion. “Awesome run, guys!” she would cry as the students stood gamely waiting for her.

Snape had seen Servius embark on just such a run that Wednesday and watched the progress of the group from various convenient vantage points. On their return, as Oosthuizen was ushering the runners back inside for showers, Snape intercepted. “Servius?”

Servius stopped short and beheld him silently.

“A minute please. I need you to come with me,” said Snape, flicking dismissive eyes at the curious glances of the other runners.

“Why?”

Snape set his jaw momentarily, then replied, “I have matters I need to discuss. With you.”

Servius shrugged. “Fine,” then allowed Snape to lead him away in the direction of the dungeon stairs.

An attempt at conversation with stiltedly placed questions about the first few days at orientation was returned with monosyllables, and so Snape lapsed into silence Snape as he took Servius down the dungeon steps and along the empty corridor to his quarters. The Potions classroom and office had been visited on day two, and so it wasn’t Servius’s first trip to this level, but a faint frown marked his brow as Snape bypassed those rooms. As Snape produced his wand to unlock the door, he said, “These are my quarters. Now you know where they are, you can visit me whenever you wish.”

He opened the door and invited Servius to enter. The boy did so with an expression of extreme distrust, as if alert to a trap. He looked about him as he walked slowly inside, not speaking.

“That’s the living area…uh, kitchen…my bed is through there,” explained Snape, a little discomfited. “I could arrange an extra chair; you see, it’s normally just me…”

Servius stood in the middle of what constituted the living room: before the fire, and next to Snape’s armchair – the two component parts. He seemed unusually tall, all of a sudden, his eyes even darker in contrast to the flush still staining his cheeks. His expression, while unreadable, did not imply a high regard. “Is this where you live all the time?”

“No,” said Snape quickly. “Just during term. I have mentioned my house in the midlands.”

Servius looked at him while Snape imparted this information but didn’t react. “What am I supposed to do if I come here?”

“Well -,” Snape glanced about. “I could help you with homework. Or we could…talk, perhaps…after all, we hardly know each other.”

Servius snorted a rebuff, and Snape became irritated. “Servius, how would it seem if I _hadn’t_ told you where my quarters are? You are my son, and while I don’t particularly wish you to disturb me, if you need to, this is where you can find me.”

“Fine. Good. Now I know,” and Servius made quick steps towards the door again, brushing deliberately past his father.

“Wait!” said Snape and took a deep, steadying breath. He said to the floor: “There’s one more thing.”

Servius stopped and threw his head back a little, baldly suppressing his impatience.

“Your mother. We haven’t discussed her.”

“I don’t want to talk about her with you.”

“I presumed that. Then don’t feel obliged to speak. There’s something I want to show you.”

Snape went to the chest containing his possessions of Charity, crouched down and opened the lid, but Servius remained standing where he was. Given the proportions of the room, it was unnecessary to move anyway since all of the quarters could be seen from that single point.

“I keep things of hers, that belonged to her, in here,” said Snape. “I have little, I’m afraid. I loved – I love – your mother without question however our time together was…regrettably very brief.”

No response.

“Your mother was a scholar,” he pressed on, trying for an inspirational tone. “She did a great deal of research. You’ve seen the Muggle Studies text…” He brought forth the files containing Charity’s papers and manuscripts. “One day you might like to read these?”

Servius glanced at them but shrugged.   “Will they tell me what happened to her?” Then he looked flatly at Snape.

 _Avada Kedavra_ , _Snape heard Voldemort say at his left. The green light. Charity’s body fell heavily to the table...Dinner, Nagini._

“No,” said Snape. In his head, as was his custom, he seized the memory and slammed it into the most secure mental locker he had, afraid that Servius might somehow be able to see it in his eyes. He kept his attention on the bundle of files and thumbed through them. “No, they won’t tell you that.”

He put the files back in the chest and after a moment said, “I have these quills and pens that belonged to her. I wondered….if you might like them?”

Servius hesitated, then came to Snape’s side and took the quills. “Did she write with these?”

Encouraged, Snape nodded. “Yes. She preferred Muggle pens. She used a typewriter… I have it at my home.”

Snape bent once more to look through the chest. Behind him he heard:

“I have a dress that belonged to Mum.”

“A dress?”

“A blue one. Ma said it was a party dress. Did she wear it to the Christmas party you took her to?”

The question was open, genuine. Snape turned to Servius with a half-smile, the unconscious offer of a connection was reciprocated with Snape’s obvious fondness at the recollection. “Yes. She wore a blue gown. She looked…breathtaking.”

Servius frowned a little and glanced away, back at the quills. “Did you get a photo?”

Snape sighed out his deep regret. “No…no I didn’t but…I have memories.”

“Well I can’t look at those.”

“Yes. In fact you can.”

This time, Servius looked up sharply at his father. “How?”

“We have ways…here. I can show them to you.”

Revealing too much interest would compromise his defenses, so Servius didn’t comment and Snape didn’t elaborate. In one part of his mind he was thinking about using the Hogwarts Pensieve, and bent back down to his chest and withdrew from it the scroll of parchment with the ribbon. Absently he slipped off the ribbon and unrolled the scroll, more out of distracted habit rather than with any intention of showing it to Servius. “Your sister, Holly, perhaps she showed you a Faerie Call - ?” he trailed off.

Behind him, Servius was replying, but Snape didn’t hear him. He was transfixed by the scroll of parchment. Having unrolled it, he expected to see the same message that had been there the last time he’d opened it, but instead that message had cleared, and the only word now on the parchment, in Charity’s handwriting, was: _Severus?_

_Severus?_

Snape stared at it. He heard Servius move behind him but he couldn’t drag his eyes away. The single word was printed in the middle of the parchment, nothing else was visible. This had been written since the last time he’d opened it; he was sure of it.

“What’s that?” Servius asked, as if from a great distance.

“Oh -,” Snape quickly rolled it back up. “Nothing. Nothing. That’s just a work thing.”

“So when can you show me the memories?”

“Soon. For a while I will be acting as Headmaster and then would be conducive as there is a Pensieve in the Head’s office.”

“A what?”

“I’ll explain another time.” Snape had reluctantly returned the parchment and dropped down the lid of the chest. He stood fully upright and turned to Servius. The boy was almost at his shoulder.

“So you’re in Slytherin.” If words, tones could be distilled, pride would have risen to the surface on this statement.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“I think it is a good match for you. But heed your attitude – the Slytherins can be intolerant.”

“I like them.”

Snape was surprised by the statement but elected not to repeat it. He folded his arms. “Thought you wanted to be in Gryffindor.”

Servius’s eyes darted about the room. “You said you could keep an eye on me if I was in Slytherin.”

There was a fraction of a second when Snape’s mouth almost dropped open, but he caught it and then feigned indifference, even though inside something was rejoicing. He had expected Servius to retaliate with a Hat decision contrary to his heartfelt desire, but no, Slytherin had been the boy’s choice as well.

“As I said in my letter, I will be watching out for you. As is…as is…your mother - ,”

This no longer seemed like the slightly sentimental if throwaway comment it had been when he first wrote it. Now, having seen the parchment, perhaps…

“So what do you teach again?”

Snape frowned, thinking Servius should know this, and wondered if he was fabricating his ignorance.

“Potions. Friday.”

“Right. _Potions_.”

“Meaning?”

“Well. You know. It’s not like Dark Arts is it?”

Merlin, was the boy his pre-teen Doppleganger? Even as he’d excelled at potions, he thought he might have said the exact same words himself as an eleven-year-old. He bristled slightly at this source of amusement for his cruel gods who yet again had a laugh at his expense. They’d dangled the Dark Arts mirage for years, and now they gifted the sport to his son.

“You’d be surprised what you can do with a potion,” he countered, with some of that immature defensiveness that lurks in every adult.

“Okay. Then I _guess_ I’ll find out on Friday.”

Annoyance and resentment flared through Snape’s body as he held the barbed stare of his son, and his jaw ticked with the effort to keep his composure. Finally he said, “I believe it’s time for breakfast. You need to get changed and get to the Hall as quickly as possible.”

Servius nodded his head in an exaggerated way and gave Snape a thumbs up. “Gotcha. Bye.”

And with that, he turned and loped out of Snape’s rooms, slamming the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

It was impossible for Snape to teach all his scheduled Potions classes as well History of Magic. McGonagall’s solution to eking out time was to cancel the History classes for First through Third years during Orientation week, and then contracting Snape’s double-potions classes to single theory classes so that he could fit in four or five single-period History classes with the senior school. “It’s either that, or I get a Time-Turner,” she drily advised him from The Chair later that morning in her office, handing him her revised Master Schedule, now liberally marked with crosses and strikethroughs. “Let’s hope Binns makes a reappearance soon.”

“I confess Ma’am, I’ll be more supervising than teaching the History classes. I haven’t time to familiarize myself with the curriculum, and Merlin knows if Binns has a lesson plan. If he doesn’t return next week, I urge you to consider a new appointment.”

“I don’t disagree, Severus,” rejoined McGonagall briskly, straightening papers on her desk. “But as you are aware, I am due in London for a week right at the time when recruitment should commence. Perhaps I can leave that with you…?”

Snape folded his schedule to a knife-like edge as he said, “Ma’am.”

“Please call me Minerva.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She sighed and compressed her lips and tapped the tip of her wand into her left palm. “How is Servius settling in?”

“He tells me he likes his House mates. He has joined the running club. Other than that, I haven’t seen him.”

She studied him as though he were a crooked and poorly placed painting. “Perhaps you should think about relocating to Hogsmeade? Take a home like the Hellmanns? Then you can spend time with him.”

His first instinct was to discredit that idea immediately. But just before it became apparent on his features, he forced a stiff nod and replied, “Yes. Perhaps.”

“Slughorn tells me there are seventy-seven Slytherins this year. Because it was so alliterative, he believes it to be a good omen. Between that and the hat-stall, you must be expecting big things from Servius?” McGonagall offered a smile as she rose from her chair and poured herself and Snape a fresh cup of tea from the pot on her desk.

“I prefer to abide by what he actually does rather than his potential.”

She seemed amused as she handed him his cup. “Yes, well don’t go getting all bleeding-heart and sentimental on me Severus. You know, you are allowed a soft-spot where your own children are concerned.”

He nodded.

“Horace has told me he plans on a holiday in a couple of weeks. As you can imagine, since he is retired, I can’t very well deny him. But he tells me you’ve agreed to mind the Slytherins?”

Snape took a long draught of his tea, it helped to settle his nerves somewhat. A part of his brain had lit up like a fireworks display after seeing the parchment with his name on it, excited and frenetic over the possible implications. After Servius had left his rooms, he’d immediately withdrawn it from the chest and checked it once more, then tried the _Revelio_ charm, but without effect. “Charity?” he’d said aloud to the room, his voice cracking under the strain of the sudden massive portent the inquiry held. “Are you there?” He watched the parchment, but saw no change, and then set about the search for his own half.

“Ah yes, I have agreed to watch them. I, for my sins, enjoy Head of House.”

“You’re not taking on too much are you?”

“I expect this is just a patch. I shall do my best not to drop the ball.”

She looked perplexed at his choice of idiom, the likelihood of any kind of ball being dropped in the Wizarding world almost unheard of. “You’re at your best when you’re busy,” acknowledged McGonagall. She paused a moment, then with a quick glance at the dozing Dumbledore, she held her hand out flat before her for Snape to see. The fingers were discernibly trembling. “It started after the war,” she murmured. “I don’t know if it’s just fatigue or something else. I fear I am not who I was, Severus.”

She watched her own shaking hand a second longer, then lifted her eyes to his and offered a weak smile. He put down his cup and took a step towards her. “Ma’am – you must -,”

“Shh!” she said, glancing at Dumbledore again. “He nags me incessantly.”

He conceded with an impatient exhalation. “Then will you permit me to supply you a potion? I can treat you with utmost confidentiality.”

“Severus, you do my nerves good just being here. I don’t want potions. But…well, make sure you organize that portrait painter – here is his name, he resides in Godric’s Hollow, Dumbledore knew him,” she handed him a slip of parchment from her desktop.

“Why are you making arrangements, Minerva?” he asked gently.

“I know what that trembling can mean, Severus,” she sat down again. “But at my age, you don’t fear it. I have someone waiting for me. I would almost welcome it – the thought of all that sleep - ,”

“It may simply be tiredness -,” said Snape. “You needn’t get melodramatic.”

“I’m just talking about retiring, Severus,” she laughed, but it was slightly bitter, recriminating. “I don’t plan on dying just yet.” Her smile faltered somewhat as Snape stared at her with a deep frown. “On your way, my dear, I have much to do.”

He lingered a moment, not lifting his gaze. Then he said, “Ma’am,” and exited the Office.

 

* * *

 

The day was proving relentless.   After his meeting with McGonagall, Snape had two single Potions classes back to back, both subjected to the background din of builders in the Slytherin Common Room. If it had just been the sound of tools on masonry, he might not have minded so much, but the builders had taken up the habit of tuning into a wireless at full volume, and the vicinity was filled with the ambient noise of lackluster Wizarding music and talkback shows.

A mild confrontation with Fetherington during recess about the noise had Snape’s hackles rising, but he was placated somewhat when the mason told him that the repair work had an end in sight.

“Now what do you say to that, Mister Snape?” Fetherington said with a sweeping hand in the direction of the Common Room windows, at the foot of which sat three overall-donned builders – one of which was Jacob - on upturned crates eating sandwiches. “Don’t they look lovely?   As good as new they look.”

“That is true enough. They look perfectly well. Although the necessary repair was more an issue of their integrity…”

“I reckon one more week should do it.”

“You do?”

“Ayuh. Course, helps if the lads are motivated and a spot of music here and there helps pass the time -,”

“Can you just manage the volume? I am trying to teach - ,”

“I heard you Professor; we’ll keep it down.”

Snape folded his arms and nodded. “Since we have a due date, I shall advise the Headmistress of the good news. Although we may need to meet with the Ministry soon about the funding.”

“Oh yes?” Fetherington’s straw-coloured eyebrows hiked quickly. “In that case I’ll organize an invoice now.”

“You’ll be paid.”

“It’s not so much me, Professor, it’s the lads you understand -,”

“You’ll be paid.”

“Righto.” Fetherington gave him a cool look and Snape returned it, then turned and left.

 

* * *

 

During lunch, instead of taking his place in the Great Hall, Snape locked himself in his office to search for his half of the enchanted parchment. At worst, he could simply create a new one and hope that it worked, but his fervent desire was that he could locate his own, and that it’s provenance might be the key to opening correspondence with Charity.

His bookcase and filing cabinet were possible locations, but knowing himself, he would have put it in the hidden drawer of his office desk where he put all manner of orphaned articles that had no obvious place of residence. His habit was to drop items in it, lock the drawer and then immediately forget about them. The key – a Muggle contrivance that Snape felt oddly nostalgic about - was stuck to the underside of the desk and when he felt for it, he was pleasantly surprised to find it still there. With Slughorn having used the Office for years, he’d imagined that this would have been a fairly obvious place to look and that Slughorn would have appropriated the drawer for his own purposes, which he certainly did with the others that had been open. But apparently the hidden drawer had been unused for over eight years.

He was just about to slot the key in, when there was a knock at the office door. He uttered a growl of impatience under his breath and then barked: “Who is it?”

“Severus? It’s Aurora.”

If it had been anyone else he would have sent them away, but Sinistra…she had entered his inner sanctum. For years and years they’d worked together as simply co-existing staff members – and then, suddenly, without him seemingly noticing, she’d dropped his guards and moved in, just like Charity had. He could count on one hand the people who’d managed it.

Taking up his wand, he promptly unlocked the door and she stepped inside the room.

He had opened up the drawer and was rummaging around the interior, pulling out any random pieces of parchment he could find in there – and there were a lot.

“Severus – hi, uh – what are you doing?” asked Sinistra, glancing briefly about her as she approached the desk. She was trying to remember the last time she’d been in this office.

“Looking for something.”

“You’re always looking for something.”

“I know…”

“I came looking for _you_. You weren’t at lunch.”

“And well? You’ve found me.”

He was very distracted. With each piece of parchment he uncovered, he would open it and check before discarding it on the floor. He’d scarcely looked at her.

“I came to talk about Servius,” she attempted.

“Yes?”

“Severus, stop it!” Sinistra had come to a standstill before his desk, and with a flick of her wand she snapped shut the hidden drawer, just missing his fingertips. “You’re being very rude.”

He glared at her, anger scudding across his face and she held her breath for a moment, but then it dissipated, and he sat back in his chair. “Sorry. Servius. You were saying?”

“Can you please introduce us tonight? I don’t want to be his teacher for months before you remember to tell him I’m also his Godmother. The first year Slytherins and Gryffindors have Astronomy tomorrow.”

“Tonight? You mean after dinner?”

“Yes. When they have free time. Bring him up to the Astronomy Tower.”

Snape had about five hundred things he needed to do after dinner, including some semblance of a plan for his first History class and his first seventh-year Potions class with Diaphne in it. He’d also had vague hopes of researching McGonagall’s condition, and that was if he couldn’t make progress with the Charity mystery.

But he said, “Of course. I will bring him then.”

“Tell him to rug up. It can get cold up there in the evening.” Sinistra was smiling at him, her eyes danced a little. “Merlin, Severus, I’m a bit nervous! Were you nervous when you first met him?”

He brought to mind the meeting at The Leaky Cauldron. “Yes. Very.”

“Are you happy he’s in Slytherin? He seemed popular with the other kids, didn’t he – they seemed really happy when he went to their table.”

“He tells me he likes them.”

“And he’s a handsome lad!” she enthused. “You never said that; you said –,” she stopped suddenly, realization too late dawning on her face.

Snape smiled in spite of himself. “I said he resembled me.”

Aghast at her faux par she uttered, “I didn’t mean -,”

“It’s alright.”

“But I think you _are_ handsome,” declared Sinistra stoutly, then her eyes widened, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

Snape didn’t know what to say or do and simply sat there, staring hard at the table before him. Well - there was a turn-up. This was information so unexpected it stopped traffic in his head, landing with all the eloquence of an up-ended lorry. Exclamation points began to fire. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll…just go…” mumbled Sinistra, pointing at the door.

“Oh, uh, yes -,”

“Sorry. Um, so, after dinner…”

“…yes. After dinner.”

She turned, and her motion caused the elongated sleeve of her gown to knock over a tall, narrow flask on his desk of nightshade essence, the purple contents spilling along the edge of his desk and dripping to the floor. “Dragon’s balls!” she exclaimed, “Merlin, I’m sorry!!”

“It’s alright -,” Snape said quickly, and when she looked up at him with mortified eyes, he held them for a beat. “It’s…” He promptly _scourgified_ the spill. “No harm done.”

A blush had tinged her cheeks. She looked at him again but couldn’t sustain the gaze and with a tiny shake of her head she turned and rushed out of his office.

The fever with which he’d been energised earlier had seeped away, and it took some moments of repose, replaying the scene in his head, before he recommenced his search inside the hidden drawer. But even though Charity was in the front of his mind, she wasn’t entirely alone.

 

* * *

 

The list of extra-curricular clubs had been published on brightly coloured posters and were displayed on noticeboards in each Common Room. The notice informed students that they were to make their way to the Great Hall from 3:30pm on Friday for sign-up and an opportunity to talk to the teacher or Prefect who would be running each club. Quidditch was excluded – team trials were to be run separately.

As Servius and William entered the Slytherin Common Room on Thursday afternoon, the congregation of students who had gathered around the noticeboard turned to look, and fourth-year Lewis Blake said distinctly: “Look out! here’s Wait For William.”

The epithet had gained wildfire traction over the past two days. Wait For William was the proud owner of the first nickname in his year. When he’d first encountered it – at dinner, from a passing kid in Hufflepuff - he’d turned to Servius immediately after with painfully red ears and cheeks and said “Oh shit. It’s cause of what I said at the Sorting Ceremony.”

A chortle had escaped Servius before he’d had a chance to suppress it. “It could be worse,” he said quietly, wrestling his lips out of a grin. “Pass the pumpkin juice.”

“Wait For William? It’s like something out of Famous Five!” said William mournfully.

“That’s _Just William_ isn’t it? Ma read them to me.”

“Whatever. But it’s lame. They’re taking the piss.”

“Nah. It just means you got their attention. Everyone knows who you are now. Not bad after only two days.”

As a giant bowl of spaghetti had been passed down the table towards them, William’s attention was diverted and he mumbled, “S’pose...” and then it wasn’t raised again.

Now, at Lewis Blake’s comment in the Common Room, William merely grinned and raised a debonair hand for a high-five with Lewis, who met it congenially. “What’s all this then?” He and Servius tried to find a gap between the bodies they could sneak through.

“Clubs,” informed third-year Polly Kelly who had bedecked the cover of her Dossier with a hundred stickers of horses. “I’m doing gardening again. Oh Pipe, remember when Professor Longbottom got that smudge of soil across his forehead…”

She and Piper Davis, the friend to whom she’d been biologically cleaved as far as Servius could tell, hung their tongues out and swooned.

“He’s a Gryffindor!” retorted fifth-year Reggie Chiverton. “You’ll get Griffin pox.” Reggie reportedly had plans to have his two front teeth stained green when Slytherin made it to the Quidditch final.

“I’d take anything off Professor Longbottom,” sighed Piper.

“Lamebottom,” snickered William, and Piper, having scalded him with her glare, said, “SUCH a first-year thing to say.” And the pair of girls wandered off arm in arm.

“It says Dueling’s being taken by Professor Hellmann this year,” remarked Josiah Walker, a sixth-year with sandy hair and a face so freckled it was hard to make out his eyes. “Flitwick’s out. Huh. What’s Hellmann like?”

“Ah hud him fur DADA oan Monday,” replied Ben McGregor in a strong regional accent. The braces on his teeth belied a Muggle upbringing. “German, fae Durmstrang. He’s git a black wand. Pure strict.”

“Durmstrang won the European Under-Sixteen Dueling Championships for three years in a row,” said Reggie. “There was that kid…what was his name?”

“Niels Brockhaus,” said a voice from the leather sofa. The Slytherins all turned to look and saw Amelie Hellmann sitting there, her feet up on the table, not looking at them but twirling her wand between her fingers as if it were a baton. Her long grey and green socks were pulled up over her knees.

“Yeah…,” agreed Reggie, but absently. “It was Neils Brockhaus. How do you know?”

“My father taught him,” she answered, with a finishing flourish of her baton-twirling which involved flicking the wand into the air and catching it.

“Her Dad’s Professor Hellmann,” explained William.

The gaggle of students all stared at her. Then abruptly, like a tide-turning, Josiah said, “I am _so_ doing dueling,”

“Me tae,” said Ben.

“We should get the Great Hall early, so we don’t miss out,” said Reggie.

Servius felt an elbow in his ribs. “Let’s do dueling!” said William with much spirited nodding. “That is going to be _the_ club this year.”

“You don’t even know what dueling is!”

“Well it’s like fighting with wands isn’t it?” William had taken out his portly redwood wand and waggled it about.

“Yeah…I dunno. Is there a football club?”

“Football?” scoffed Reggie. “Go back to Muggleville. Think Quidditch.”

“Why can’t you play football?”

“There’s no magic!”

“Well…so? It’s still cool.”

Ben, a Prefect, and trying to be helpful, said: “Yeh need tae play Junior Quidditch. Thass whit first and seicont-years are inta. Then by th’rd year, ye’ll be duin fur senior Quidditch.”

Servius looked highly dubious.

“C’mon, let’s take dueling,” urged William. “You said your Dad was good at hexing. You’ll be a natural.”

The other boys looked at him. Josiah said generally to the gathering: “I heard Slughorn say to some first-years that Professor Snape didn’t do Dark Arts anymore.”

“He so does!” snapped William heatedly. “I bet you didn’t know that Professor Snape fought vampires in Romania!”

Servius stared at him, mystified. “What?”

The other boys made deeply sceptical noises.

“And he’s got a black wand too!” added William. “That’s why he’s always wearing black. Because of…cause he can do Dark Arts.”

“Then maybe he should duel my father,” said Amelie, looking sidelong at Servius from the sofa. “Then we’ll all know.”

The others turned from Amelie to Servius, as though at a tennis match.

“What? Nah…” said Servius, waving a dismissive hand. He was remembering the conversation between his father and Garrick Ollivander: … _and since you’ve taken it into battle._ “He does…you know…potions.”

“That’s an awesome idea,” said Lewis Blake, glancing excitedly at the others. “A teacher duel!”

“But if you want to get your Dad off, that’s fine,” said Amelie, with a small shrug and tilt of her head.

“You _are_ joking? ‘Course he could beat your Dad. He’s just…really busy,” muttered Servius.

“If we give him loads of warning so he can fit it in?” suggested Lewis. “D’you reckon he’d beat Professor Hellmann?”

“Sure. No problem.” Servius shook hair out of his eyes and swallowed.

“I’m putting my odds on Hellmann,” declared Josiah. “Double or nothing.”

“Then make your money here!” yelled Lewis, pulling up a chair and standing on it. He waved his Dossier in the air. “Give me your odds: Professor Hellmann versus Professor Snape!!”

Servius watched appalled as the Slytherins gathered round Lewis and placed bets. As more students arrived in the Common Room, they joined the throng and the excitement mounted.

Servius backed away and went to the sofa where he stood in front of Amelie, plaiting her hair. “You gotta call this off. I can’t get my Dad to fight a duel.”

“ _I_ didn’t start it. But anyway, why not? Or are you afraid he’ll lose?” And she made some chicken clucking sounds before she gave him a smug smile.

 

* * *

 

The rolled-up piece of parchment was at the very back of Snape’s hidden drawer, bound by a slip of Hogwarts ribbon, and bearing a rather inelegant ink thumbprint on its outside. The quill was not far away from it. Snape unrolled the parchment with shaking fingers as relief and excitement surged through him, not entirely different from the way he used to open them when the parchment was originally employed. The paper was blank, however, which more disappointed him than surprised him. This half was meant for his words.

He had only five minutes to spare before his next two classes, but he took up the quill anyway, dipped it in ink and immediately wrote on the parchment: _Charity – I am here, are you receiving this?_

He looked at it critically a moment, then added: _my love?_

And then wondered how she would take that, if she did indeed read it. Considering the last time they’d been in a room together, there was the trifling matter of him impassively watching her die. Would she still appreciate being called by his love-name for her?

Should he apologise now? And how to phrase that rather delicate disputation? _Oh yes, sorry about that whole Malfoy Manor thing…_

“ _Convey_ ,” he said quickly with a wand tap as the guilt and regret made his heart hammer and mouth dry. And then as he watched the words disappear he said desperately, “No, wait, _Finite Incantatum_ –“ but the words had vanished. And now nerves were added to the potent mix flooding his system.

He sat in his desk chair, holding the parchment in both hands before him, conscious of time ticking away but unable to make himself move. Her side of the parchment was also on the desktop in its resting state of loosely rolled, and with a deep breath, he placed down his own and let his trembling fingers lift open hers.

The word _Severus?_ had disappeared.

But it was blank. He could see the tiny flecks of cellulose in the paper, a crease here and there.

He waited. Staring at the parchment, he waited the remaining two minutes he had left. And then he dropped it and shoved his chair back.

He was deeply confused. It sunk him into a reverie, a dark mood. His thwarted hopes beat their wings like caged birds against the bars, and, a few minutes later, as he stormed into his third-year Potions class to a room of disconcerted students, he was like the Snape of old.

 

* * *

 

When Snape entered the Slytherin Common Room / Archive that evening, he paused in the doorway and looked around him.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. A manifestation of Charity was the closest words he could put to it and then, with a sweet irony, his eyes fell on Servius.

His son, squashed up on the sofa with half a dozen other students, had glanced towards him when the Prefects in the room stood up straight on his arrival and said, “Sir”. It was after dinner, and the students at this hour had free time before bed. Many had gathered in the Common Room to talk, play games, share homework and write letters. This was the time when the Muggle-raised amongst them complained bitterly about the lack of television or computers in spite of a literal world of magic before them.

“Professor Slughorn’s in the dorms -,” began Tattinger, but Snape shook his head.

“Servius? Please, a moment.”

Servius looked away, as if he hadn’t just heard the summons. William nudged him. “Go on.”

Snape stood waiting silently as Servius got to his feet with as much reluctance and unwillingness as was possible to physically demonstrate. He took so long, Tattinger eventually came towards him and gave him a little push. “Show some respect,” hissed the Prefect.

Servius scowled and grudgingly went through the door Snape held open, then Snape followed behind, the door shutting with a clang as they left up the archive steps.

“Where are we going?” Servius asked as they marched along the corridor.

“Astronomy Tower,” responded Snape.

“Why are we going there? Gunna push me off?”

Snape stopped where he was and when Servius came to a surprise halt as well and turned to face his father, Snape was dark and narrow-eyed. “Don’t…even…joke.”

“Geez, alright, keep your hair on.”

“You have no idea,” grunted Snape, resuming his walk.

The Entrance Hall was empty and networked with shadow and moonlight as they crossed it towards the stairs to the Tower. “So why are we going here?” asked Servius, looking around him, heart lifting at the prospect of the castle at night. He couldn’t explain the appeal, but he had always been drawn to the heavens when the sun had finally slipped below the horizon, and balming dark of an evening sky drew over with its pinpricks of stars. He had often frustrated his grandparents at dinnertime, trying to find him, when he had snuck out the back door to sit outside and gaze upwards.

“Someone you need to meet,” replied Snape. “And you will be on your best behaviour.” They had commenced the trudge up the spiral stairs, and about halfway, Snape called: “Professor Sinistra?”

Sinistra’s face appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning over the balustrade. “Hi, come on up.”

“I’ve already been up here,” said Servius. “We came on Monday; part of orientation.”

Snape ignored him until they had reached the landing of the observation deck where Sinistra was waiting for them, dressed warmly in her winter cloak against the chilly, persistent breeze and Snape realised he’d forgotten to tell Servius to wrap up. The deck was lit with red-fronted gaslamps and the pearly glow of a full, bright harvest moon. Sinistra was smiling at Servius with such focused attention it made him frown and withdraw.

“Servius,” said Snape, standing adjacent to them both. He held a palm up in Sinistra’s direction and waited until Servius looked at him. “This is Professor Sinistra. She is three things. She is your Astronomy Professor. She is a friend of mine and your mother’s. And she is your Godmother.”

Servius turned his eyes from his father to Sinistra and stared. Then he glanced back unsurely, then to Sinistra again. The task of comprehending was visible.

“I’m so pleased to meet you at last, Servius,” said Sinistra, maintaining a steady beam. Snape saw her hand start to raise as if she had thought about offering a handshake, but then it relaxed again.

Servius turned his attention back to Snape. “How come I didn’t know I had a Godmother? Ma never said anything,”

“I asked your father,” said Sinistra before Snape could speak. “I didn’t know about you until a few weeks ago. But I was very good friends with your Mum and I wanted her to have peace knowing you would always have someone you could trust if…if you needed it.”

Servius looked unconvinced and communicated his discomfort with a half-shrug and averted eyes.

“We need to get to know each other!” announced Sinistra after exchanging a disconcerted glance with Snape. “Here! Do you like hot chocolate? There’s marshmallows…” With her wand she levitated two mugs with spill caps on them. Servius slowly accepted the cheerful looking mug that hovered near him with little hummingbird-like dips.

The boy looked unusually flummoxed as he took a sip of the warm, sweet brew and licked his top lip.

“So we both love hot chocolate. Well that’s a start!”

Silence descended while Servius considered this and, having no obvious path on what to do next, continued to frown and dunk his marshmallows.

“Do you like looking at the moon?” Sinistra asked with a slightly desperate top note. “Look at the beauty I organized specially for you.”

Servius actually smiled, as did Snape, and Sinistra’s grin in response was as radiant as the orb in question.

“You have your first Astronomy class tomorrow, but that’s during the day. We are so lucky the moon is up this early – I think since you’re here we should take advantage of it. She’s at perigee, and if you look through my primary telescope you should see all the best topographical features easily. Viewing conditions are spectacular.”

She gently guided him to her largest telescope and helped set him up for a viewing. He had been unresisting and Snape suspected the night sky was something he was drawn to – a stargazer like his mother. Sinistra showed him how to adjust the lenses and how to locate certain features, and very subtly closed the personal space between his body and hers, not enough to be imposing or intimidating, but in such a way as to communicate in that physical subtext that she was one who was content to be near him, that his proximity was welcome and that she could be trusted.

Servius became absorbed with the exercise and rarely spoke but for observations or questions, but Sinistra noticed that he was shivering and his teeth chattered a little. “You didn’t bring your cloak or a jacket?” she asked presently.

“I neglected to mention it,” confessed Snape. “Here, give him mine,” and he had begun to shrug off his cloak but Aurora said, “No, wait, I have just the thing.” Then she disappeared down the stairs.

In the interlude, across the wide space between them, Servius said to Snape: “Were Professor Sinistra and my Mum friends when Mum was a teacher here?”

“Yes. Your mother and Professor Sinistra had some things in common.”

Servius fiddled with the eyepiece for a moment, then said, not looking at Snape: “Would she know what happened to Mum?”

The second time today he’d asked. Images, snatches of conversation flashed through Snape’s mind. _I don’t want my son to know!_ And Sinistra: _you should not be spared knowing how you took the coward’s way out_.

She didn’t know it all, she didn’t know everything – only the people who’d been in the room that evening knew the whole truth. Many of them were now dead – in some ways he wished he’d taken the truth with him to the grave himself. He wouldn’t have to keep lying to his son now.

“No, Servius. She won’t know. I told you: your mother died…in the war. She was killed by the enemy, fighting for tolerance -,”

Servius’s eyes flashed at him and he opened his mouth to speak but Sinistra arrived back. She was unfolding a blanket she carried; it was soft, black with silver specks on it, which Snape realised later were tiny stars.

“Here you are!” she said gaily, and draped the blanket over Servius’s shoulders. He stiffened, his eyes still glittering, but Sinistra didn’t notice and lifted her wand and murmured an incantation and the blanket gave a little shimmery pulse, fitting itself snugly around Servius’s upper half and arms. “How’s that? You should feel nice and warm.”

Servius mumbled his thanks. He lifted furious eyes to Snape once more then turned back to the telescope.

After perhaps half an hour, Snape rose from his seat where he had subsided into a meditation. He had been musing on how events would play out if he did tell Servius the truth, how he could possibly word it in some way, shape or form didn’t reveal his terrible betrayal, his awful dereliction, without it appearing to absolve himself. Could an eleven-year-old comprehend the immeasurable complexity of the circumstances and consequences? And even if he could grasp it in abstract, could he divorce it from the death of his beloved mother? Did he have the maturity to forgive a Death Eater? Could he do it if the Death Eater was his own father?

The irony that Snape couldn’t ignore was that as he watched his son with Sinistra, here at the top of the Astronomy Tower, the scene was only possible as a result of his unyielding, unbreakable dedication to fighting for victory. Had he leapt to the assistance of Charity in that room in Malfoy Manor, he would almost certainly be dead. And so would she. And then the chain-like links of fate and destiny in which he played his part would have been broken – to what inevitable conclusion there was no way of knowing. Servius would have been orphaned and probably ostracized from a life in this world – the very situation Charity was desperate to avoid.

His actions and decisions now afforded Servius this freedom, these choices. Generation after generation the baton of an improved existence was passed forward. _Take it, bear it well_ , said the parent to the child. _Cherish it and adore it, and then pass it on to your own - just greater, make it greater. For we that got broken, we did so in efforts to pass this on, so that yours had a chance to be better._

“Servius, it’s time to go, it’s bed time,” said Snape softly, standing and approaching the pair who were now at a telescope each.

“Aw! Sir, but - !”

“No buts.”

Sinistra left her telescope and smiled at Snape, obviously delighted that Servius was inclined towards her own, first love. “He already knows so much,” she said subtly. “Where did he learn it all?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Snape, watching as Servius fitted the cap back on the eyepiece. “I think it must be self-taught.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Servius,” said Sinistra, and patted Servius lightly on the shoulder. She couldn’t help it; much as she would have loved to hug him, she didn’t want to overwhelm and she had to curb her own impulses.

“Make a head start,” said Snape to his son, who’d shoved his cold hands in his pockets. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

When they heard Servius’s feet clattering down the steps, Snape turned to Sinistra. “Thank you – this was a good idea. You…and he…there seemed to be a connection -,”

“Severus, I want to apologise for earlier today…I didn’t mean – I just didn’t want you to think I thought -,” she blurted, staring at his shoulder, the warm blush of embarrassment stealing into her cheeks.

“You don’t need to -,”

“I know that with Servius here, and just getting your memories back -,”

“It’s alright, Aurora, really, I - I was flattered.”

She finally allowed herself to look at him, meet his eyes. Moonlight reflected off them. They were looking at her rather intensely. And then just as her heart started to beat a little faster, he said, “I might come and talk to you soon. I think…I know how this must sound but…I might have found a way to reach Charity.”

The effect of these words was like a wet sandbag on Sinistra’s tiny flame. She literally took a step back and tried to keep her expression neutral as dismay, jealousy and shame wrestled for dominance. On top of that was confusion about what Snape was implying.

“Wh- what? You mean like a séance?”

“No,” he shook his head quickly, impatiently. “A letter. When she was alive – we had occasion to write. She has, I think, written again on the same parchment.”

Her earlier feelings forgotten, Sinistra’s brow contracted while her eyes widened in amazement, trying to process what he was saying. “ _She’s written you a letter?”_

“Not a letter, a word…look, perhaps I should bring it with me…but I must go, I want to make sure Servius -,”

“Of course, of course,” uttered Sinistra, shaking her head distractedly. “Perhaps tomorrow?’

“Yes…”

But Snape was already walking away, a flurry of cloak as he commenced down the spiral stairs.

 

At the bottom of the stairs, awaiting him, was Servius. Snape was somewhat surprised, having assumed the boy would have taken advantage of his freedom and gone off wandering. But, unaware Snape was watching, Servius was keeping himself occupied by attempting to levitate a dry, brown oak leaf that had blown in through the Entrance Door. “ _Wingardium LeviOSA_ ,” Snape heard him mutter, the emphasis a touch strenuous. The leaf twitched.

Snape continued to the bottom of the stairs, allowing himself to be heard and Servius hurriedly put his wand in his back pocket. He carried Sinistra’s blanket under his other arm – she had presumably told him he could keep it.

“It’s good that you’re practicing,” Snape murmured. “Charms?”

Servius merely flicked his eyes at him and fell into step as Snape strode eastwards across the Entrance Hall.

“Potions tomorrow,” Snape remarked. No response. “Astronomy.”

“Yeah. That’ll be good. And club sign-ups.”

“Indeed. And which clubs interest you?”

“Stargazers. Maybe Junior Quidditch. Dueling.”

“Mmhm.”

They had reached the corridor that led to the archive steps. The heels of their boots rang out on the stone and, out of habit, Snape lit his wand, springing their shadows into life along the wall.

“Sir, Professor, can I ask you something?”

“You can call me Dad.”

Servius pointedly ignored this. “I was wondering…You know Professor Hellmann?”

“Obviously.”

“Is he…is he good at dueling?”

Snape snuck a sideways look. “Well he’s teaching the club so I expect he would have a degree of proficiency.”

“Apparently he’s taught some kid who won some dueling championship…”

“Is that so?” said Snape coolly, well aware of how rumours worked.

“Can teachers duel with each other?”

“Why are you asking, Servius?”

“No reason….just some of the kids were saying…”

“The best teacher I know for dueling is Professor Flitwick.”

“Really?”

“He is exceptional. At least he was. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him.”

They were heading down the steps.

“Wait,” said Servius, and Snape paused and turned. Servius stared at the wall. “So…if you got into a duel with Professor Hellmann, who…who do you think would win?”

Snape clamped down hard on a smile. “Almost certainly Professor Hellmann.”

“Why?” shot back Servius, eyes flaring.

“I barely know the man. I would presume him to be superior to myself.”

“Well then how do you know you’re not better than him?”

“Perhaps it would depend on what we were dueling about. If it is a matter of honour, if he had grievously offended me or someone I loved, then perhaps I would win.”

Servius pondered this. “So you would duel him if…he had offended me?”

“No. Why are you trying to provoke me into a duel with Professor Hellmann?”

“Is that cause you don’t love me or because you just wouldn’t duel with him?”

“I – I just wouldn’t duel with him. Now what’s this about?”

“Nothing,” grunted Servius, and shoved passed Snape as he said the password and entered the archive, the door slamming shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those readers who have commented and reviewed - it is much appreciated and very motivating!


	18. The Bad Day Part I

When a Post Owl dropped McGonagall’s rolled-up Daily Prophet onto her fourth cup of tea, she cursed rather loudly, audible to Snape who was sitting beside her, even over the ruckus of breakfasting students.  It was cleaned up quickly with a spell, and then when she opened the paper with much shaking and straightening, her mutters became exclamations.

“Oh look, Severus!” She held up the front page for him to see.  “Harry’s a father again!”  For indeed, the headline picture was of Harry and Ginny Potter leaning in to kiss the brow of a tiny infant and then smiling at the camera. 

“So it’s born then,” said Snape ungallantly, and turned back to his own modest mail delivery.

“It?  He’s a he!  And – oh look – they’ve named him Albus. I’ll tell Albus, he’ll be delighted.  Albus Remus!” she gazed approvingly at the picture for a moment, then frowned.   “Goodness, I hope Harry isn’t going to name all his bairns after dead teachers.”

Snape privately wondered how many children Potter would have to bear before he’d resign to using his name.  Fortunately, since he’d survived, he’d never have to find out.  “If he’d had – or has - a girl, I understand the plan is to name her Lily, not Charity, so I don’t think you have correctly pinpointed his naming convention.”

“Ah that’s nice.  Lily is a pretty name.” They sat in reflective silence a moment, then McGonagall hastily added, “Not that Charity isn’t.  I simply meant -,”

“Lily was his mother.  It is an absolutely appropriate name.”

“How do you know that?  I mean about them naming a girl Lily?” She seemed put out - McGonagall couldn’t stand being left out of gossip.

“Professor Snape overhead a conversation at The Broomsticks,” said a voice behind them, which Snape knew was Longbottom before he’d even turned.  “I was just hoping to have a gander at the picture, Minerva,” he said with an even smile, indicating her paper.  “Harry sent a Patronus to his _closest_ friends, so I knew it would be on the front page today.”

“Oh.  Yes – of course, Neville…”

McGonagall handed him her newspaper and Snape could feel the reluctance – he knew how much she hated anyone looking at her paper before she’d finished with it.

“Delightful, delightful,” murmured Longbottom as he quickly perused the article, and Snape surreptitiously stared at him.  He thought there was something highly suspect about the Herbology Professor.  This pretentious, overly-confident sophisticate appeared modeled on Lockhart, a manifestation of what Longbottom thought was the definition of success, but right now he was just faking it until he made it. Why?  Where was the real Longbottom?  Even his eyes seemed strange. “I hope he brings the youngsters for a visit to Hogwarts,” he pronounced, handing the paper back to McGonagall.  “I know how much Albus would enjoy that.”

“Oh, indeed,” said McGonagall.  “As you’re so close, perhaps you should extend the invitation.”

“Perhaps I will,” said Longbottom, with a smile at Snape.  “Since Hogwarts is becoming quite a _family_ destination, isn’t it?  In fact, I have your…offspring…this morning, Severus, for Herbology.”

“Professor,” replied Snape shortly, turning back to his mail.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can call me Professor.”

“Och, don’t be all officious,” chided McGonagall.  “And don’t call his child _offspring_ , Neville.”

“Tell me, does _Servius_ have any knowledge or experience with horticulture or botany?” asked Neville lightly.

“I imagine he has the average amount for an eleven-year-old.”

Longbottom gave an airy laugh.  “You _imagine_?  You don’t know? Merlin, I would have thought a father would know something as fundamental as that, Severus.  Well shall I find out and report back?”

Snape glowered at him.  “No need.” 

“Well…enjoy your day.” And Longbottom wandered off, stopping to exchange a few words with a rapturous-looking Diaphne at the other end of the table.

McGonagall held Snape’s eyes for a moment, the smile of her face deeply uncertain, but she said no more.

Snape allowed his gaze to fall on Servius.  He was the first person he looked for when the Slytherins trooped into the Great Hall.  The interest was not returned however; Servius ignored him and kept his attention deliberately focused elsewhere.  Longbottom’s words still ringing in his ears, truthfully, Snape didn’t know if Servius could tell a daisy from a daffodil; he knew virtually nothing about his own son, what he did know would fit comfortably on a chocolate frog card. 

The bell rang out, indicating the transition time between breakfast and first lessons.  Students and teachers alike began to rise, gather their things, drain the dregs of their coffee or juice and make their way from the Hall.  Snape was headed towards to the dungeons for his first seventh-year potions class of the year, and as he walked up the aisle, passing Servius, he caught his son’s eye - but before he could make any gesture or sign, Servius looked away.

 

* * *

There were eleven students in his seventh-year Potions class of mixed House denominations and predominantly boys – all of them aged seventeen and very attendant on their NEWTs and futures.  When Snape entered the classroom, they were seated and already had their study materials out, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.  For those with specific NEWT objectives, they also had learning programmes in their Dossiers which they were now consulting.  Eleven was too many in his opinion.  His final year classes just before the war had counted closer to six or seven, every one of the students handpicked.  Slughorn had been far more lenient.  Earlier in the week when Snape had scoured the student files of this class, he found at least three who’d appealed their OWL scores and Slughorn had relented on all of them.

Of the handful of girls, Diaphne was now included in their number, seated up the back, wearing her mediwitch robes and a small pair of spectacles which Snape had never seen before.  When he took position up at the teacher’s dais and cast his eye over the group, she and the others gazed steadily back.

He read the roll:  Ollie Miller had the beginnings of a wispy moustache; Tertius Buckner had a prominent Adams-apple and Connie Stevens in blue seemed ready to bust out of her blouse.  They were young adults and when they answered him, their voices were steadfastly mature, indeed Zara Ellis had a slightly impatient air about her, as if she were the one doing the critiquing.

Snape closed the roll-book but remained seated.  He didn’t need to patrol amongst this group looking for contraband and notes, intimidating the class into learning.  In his chair facing them, he crossed his legs and spoke quietly.

“Not all of you will pass this year,” he said. “In fact, some of you should not be here.”

Consternated rumblings amongst the group.  Victor Emerton – he, who according to his file had been responsible for no less than three potions-related explosions in the last six years – sat back with an angry scowl and folded his arms.

“You know who you are,” said Snape.  “This is a good time to be honest with yourselves.  If you wish to leave, there will be no retribution.  I will discuss the matter with the Headmistress and your Head of House, and you will be reassigned to another subject.”

No one moved or spoke.

“You will have another opportunity after class.  Perhaps you need to know more about what this year will mean and why I am offering a dispensation.” His voice dropped so low the students leaned forward slightly to hear.  “I have a particular style, and it doesn’t work for everyone.  It is unforgiving.  It is indiscriminate.  It is remorseless.  When you brew a potion meant for the consumption of another, and that potion must perform perfectly a hundred percent of the time, then failure against that standard must be the fault of the Potioneer.  Perhaps in the brewing?  Was it the selection of ingredients?  Or maybe the quality of the ingredients, the application of them, the preparation of them?  All of those are decisions made by the Potioneer.  Failure on any one factor may result in death to your patient, and the death of a patient is a reflection on the practice.”

He made eye-contact with each student in turn, lingering for only a second longer on Diaphne.

“A student with a mid-year failure rate of greater than one and a half percent will be dissuaded from continuing.”

“But we have to get NEWTs -,” said Connie Stevens hesitantly.

“You are here to become Potioneers!  NEWTs will follow.”  Snape picked up his master copy of _Advanced Potions_ (with amendments in 2002, 2004) and dropped it heavily on his desk.  “That book will not make you Potioneers.  Neither will NEWTs.  _I_ will.  But I will not make it easy for you – that you can depend on.”

He stood and hitched his hands on the lapels of his gown.  “Any questions?”

There were none.

 

* * *

Servius and William were late for their first Herbology class.  Hurrying for the greenhouses via the front entrance, they passed Lewis Blake emerging from the Dungeon stairs looking pink-cheeked and woebegone, his Dossier in his hand and rucksack slung over one shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Blake?” asked William, and came to a standstill, Servius reluctantly pausing beside him.

“Sluggy’s given me a wigging.  My Hog Doss grassed on me,” answered Blake.

“What for?”

“Taking those bets yesterday!” said Lewis and opened to the page to show them where he’d scribbled down names and odds for the teacher duel.  “Course gambling’s prohibited.  Now I’ve got detention and the duel is off.”

“What did put them in your Dossier for?” said William.

“Wasn’t thinking, was I!  Now Sluggy wants to talk to the whole House as well.  Better than losing points though.  _Shit_ , I’m late for Transfiguration.  See you guys later.”

He dashed off, and William and Servius exchanged looks.  “Doesn’t mean the duel has to be off,” said William matter-of-factly.  “We’ll just have to keep it secret.”

“Will, listen – there’s no way in hell the bungholious maximus that is my father would duel Hellmann, not even in secret, I already asked him and he said he wouldn’t,” said Servius.   “He reckoned he wouldn’t even win anyway.  So let it go.  It’s not happening.  And _move it_ – the greenhouses are miles away.”

The lesson was underway by the time the pair found the right greenhouse and virtually crashed through the swing-door to a room of suddenly silent and staring Slytherins and Gryffindors, standing in the walkway between the rows of raised beds and shelves filled with exotic and magical plants. Bizarre looking foliage hung from the roof in baskets and nets, and tendrils of other plants snuck out from the shadowy space beneath the planters.  Professor Longbottom, wearing a heavy cotton khaki gardening smock with deep pockets over his patterned jumper, his gardening tools slung in a leather belt, made his way through the group of students from the far end of the greenhouse where he’d been opening the roof ventilators.

“Oh!” he said, walking towards them with a raised an enquiring brow.  “Who’s this then?  Is it Master Snape?  And, appropriately, Wait for William.”

Laughter from the students.

“Glad you could join us…ten minutes late.  Were you troubled, somehow, in finding us?’

“No sir,” muttered Servius, confused by the derision. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Oh well that’s alright then.” Longbottom glared for a moment, then turned to the remainder of the group. “Please select your plant as we discussed and find the identifying features that inform you if it is a male or female of the species.”

The class, with much jostling and bumping, went to a particular traybed stacked with specimens and each student picked up a small, spiky, prickly plant in a black pot, and from there proceeded to the worktable that was located at the front of the greenhouse.  At the back of the group, Servius and William waited their turn and by the time they reached the bed, the only plants left were at the back and slightly out of reach.  The prickly little plants immediately shied away from their extended arms, and, too fast to see with the naked eye, Servius had a prickle embedded in his hand, just up from his thumb.  “Ow! Far out, it just spiked me!”

William had managed to grasp the pot of his plant, and instantly earned three miniscule brown spikes in his hand.  With a yell, he dropped his pot and the plant was spilled out on the floor of the greenhouse.

Longbottom came quickly at the noise, and when he saw the dropped plant, which was writhing a little, he said loudly: “What’s happening here?  Who dropped this?”

“It spiked me sir!” wailed William, holding up his hand.

“Where are your gloves?”

William’s eyes widened and he glanced at Servius. “We - we didn’t know we were supposed to put gloves on.”

Longbottom’s eyebrow raised again.  “Really?  Didn’t you happen to notice that every single other student here has put their gloves on?  That wasn’t very observant of you, was it?  Apparently you didn’t even notice the plant was covered in spines.”

With a quick incantation, Longbottom repotted the plant using his wand and sent it to the worktable.  “Finish the class,” he said to the pair in far less theatrical tones.  “You can see Madam Pomfrey afterwards if there’s any irritation.”

By the time the class was finished, Servius and William each had a hand swollen to the size of a catcher’s mitt.

In the Hospital wing, Diaphne treated them both.  Sitting at a small, round table she tweezered out the embedded spikes, applied a local solution and administered a single dose of an anti-venin.   “Is this from a prickly plant?” she asked, an eyepiece magnifying the area of William’s hand while she searched for remaining prickles.  When she looked up at him, one eye was hugely enlarged through the lens.

William was struggling not to cry.  He simply nodded.

“Why didn’t you wear your gloves?” she scolded.  “Everyone knows you don’t handle prickly plants without them.  You should have come to me as soon as it happened.”

“We didn’t know,” said Servius, massaging his stinging thumb.  “I think Professor Longbottom wasn’t particularly worried.”

“Professor Longbottom has probably been pricked so many times he’s forgotten what happens the first time,” said Diaphne with a faint smile.  “He wouldn’t have done it on purpose.”

Servius wasn’t at all convinced, but something told him he wouldn’t persuade Nurse Diaphne otherwise.

 

* * *

They were now late for their first Potions class.

Snape was livid by the time they turned up.  He had read the roll at the beginning of the class, and having immediately noticed Servius was not amongst the students, he’d skipped the name.  But when he’d read out William, there was laughter, and he looked up, at a loss.

“William Huan?” he asked, and Gryffindor Flavius Murphy said generally to the room: “Guess we have to Wait for William again!”

The comment was meaningless to Snape, but the class snickered and scoffed and he was outraged by the insolence.  “Is there something you want to share?” he shouted after a few seconds.

The class immediately succumbed to silence and either stared at him or at their desk, but the whole tone of the lesson was now set.  This was his first class with this group, the class on which he might make a lasting impression, the class – if truth be told – he’d fretted about subconsciously for days.  Seventh-year with Diaphne had been bad enough, but having Servius in the room with him as he taught had felt like a pending audition.  He knew every single thing he did would be scorned, and he’d gotten to the point where he’d decided to pre-emptively come out swinging, exactly the way he’d done with Potter.  And here he was, ready to perform, and Servius hadn’t even turned up.  The humiliation was worse than even he’d expected.  He burned – exploded - with resentment.

“Get out your texts!” he shouted, and watched, heat rising up his neck, as the perplexed and slightly afraid eleven-year-olds obediently retrieved their books and opened them randomly on the desks before them.  “Put away your wands.  You won’t need them here.  This is potions, _potions!_   We brew, we mix, we blend.  None of that requires a wand.”

He stalked up the front of the class and back down again, his robes swishing behind him.  He’d lost his train of thought.  The class watched, their bewilderment reaching him in waves, and for a moment, just a moment, he considered dismissing the entire lot, he was almost too angry to teach.  _Control your emotions_ , he thought with a heaving breath.  Fasteners and latches in his mind flipped open.  He grasped the anger, the black, smoky cloud of rage and shoved what he could into the holds, he occluded this deceitful betrayer of his fear.  His fear of rejection.

He was just about in command of himself when Servius and William came skidding into the classroom and drew to a halt when they saw Snape’s expression.

“Where have you been?” His tone was low and dangerous.

“Hospital Wing, sir,” said William, holding up his hand.  The swelling had subsided, but not completely.

Snape looked at the hand then his eyes flicked to Servius, who glared back defiantly.

“Have you a note?”

“Sir?”

“From Madam Pomfrey?!  A hall pass?  Or did you just assume it would be acceptable to turn up fifteen minutes late and delay this lesson?  Is that what they do at Muggle schools?”

Ah, he’d lost it.  Snape knew it.  He wasn’t making sense, he’d lost control.  The black eyes of his son had undone him.

The students stared, all of them.  Fleetingly he wondered if his best moments as a teacher were behind him.  He was syncopated; the students had a predictable rhythm, but he: he had lost his tempo.

William and Servius were still standing and he gestured roughly for them to take their seats, then he strode to the blackboard and with an angry sweep of his wand, displayed the potion they would be studying.  It was all theory, there wasn’t time for a practical, but the debut he’d planned, the smooth as silk introduction he’d imagined in his head, was ruined.  Servius, and the Slytherins whose company he preferred, would be judging him swiftly and harshly.

Valiantly he battled on.  When it wasn’t Servius’s distant and contemptuous eyes he was encountering, there was Amelie’s, whose cool disdain emanated from the far corner where she sat alone.  He knew, from Slughorn, that she had studied potions at Preparatory School in Germany and that much of the first-year curriculum would be repetitious to her: a fact she was clearly planning on sharing at the earliest opportunity. And lastly, flanking either side of the battle-lines, were the Gryffindors, who knew nothing of Snape’s past, at least, surely not? And yet they seemed to sense a blood-letting, and with their noses sniffing the wind, their eyes watching closely, they reminded Snape of prowling hyaenas, on the alert and only too ready to capitalize on a limp; any sign of weakness, any fallibility.

Towards the end of the lesson, he gave the class a short abstract assignment to complete.  There followed a blissful fifteen minutes in which heads were bowed and quills scratched away, and Snape took to his desk and rubbed his forehead with his eyes closed and silently talked himself out of a snifter of whisky before lunch.  A delicate coughing got his attention, and when he looked up, Amelie Hellmann’s hand was raised.

“Yes?”

“May I be excused, sir?”

“What?  There’s only five minutes of class -,”

“Sir? Please?  I’ve finished my paper.”

He sighed.  “Fine.”  He was about to add that she should bring her paper up to him but she had gotten up and scurried as discreetly as possible out of the door.

When the bell rang for the end of the period, several students were still writing.  “Two more minutes!” he said.  Amelie returned, went directly to her desk, looked at it, looked under it, made a show of lifting books and through her rucksack.

“Time’s up,” announced Snape, trying to sound neutral and not utterly glad.  He stood up at the front of the classroom. “Hand your scrolls into me.  Don’t roll them, _don’t roll them_ they’ll smudge.  Put the caps on your quills! Pass them up, one at a time please!  Pass them up to me.”

“Sir!” Amelie Hellmann pushed her way through to the front of the class and stood before him.  “My work is gone!  I can’t find my scroll!”

“Have you looked for it?” was Snape’s distracted response, still gathering up assignments being handed to him.  It was the words of an adult who has been beleaguered with this complaint a thousand times.

“Everywhere!  It’s easy to see – my ink is red.”

Snape stopped suddenly and looked at her.  “Red ink?”

“I like it – wait – what’s that?”

Servius was approaching Snape with his scroll, shuffling forwards at the end of the queue of students, the ends of his slightly tortured paper curling upwards.  Amelie pointed at it, and then reached over and lifted his paper to reveal the underside.  It was smeared with red.

“Where’s my assignment!” Amelie cried.  “You took it!  You took it while I was gone!”

“What?!” retorted Servius, stunned, snatching away his papers.  “I didn’t!”

“He didn’t!” added William, who was standing behind him.

“You were probably cheating!”

The other students had stopped to watch and listen, and Snape gave them all a baleful glare.  “Yes?  Are you waiting for front-row seats and half-time snacks?  Out!  Quickly! Out!”  There was a scrambling for the exit, and Servius looked as if he was about to leave as well but Snape grabbed the hood of his robe.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Have a look through his Hog Doss sir.  I bet my paper is in there,” announced Amelie indignantly. Servius wrenched free his hood.  He had a cornered look about him. “I haven’t got your dumb paper,” he said to her, eyes narrowed.   “You’re trying to frame me again.  _What is your problem_?”

Servius’s Dossier suddenly flipped open and spat out a piece of parchment with writing in red ink all over it.  It slipped to the floor.

“There!” exclaimed Amelie triumphantly, and stooped to retrieve it. 

Servius looked immediately at Snape.  “I did _not_ put that in there.”

William’s eyes were like saucers.  “He didn’t sir!  I would know because…because I was copying off him the whole time.”

“You saw that with your own eyes sir,” said Amelie to Snape, her voice cool, and she handed him her assignment.  “I think this boy might be a liar and also a cheat.  For instance, when he tried to blame that hex on me.  I have heard he does not want to be here and he is doing everything to get expelled.  Did you know, sir, that he was trying to have a duel between you and my father?”

“She’s lying!” said Servius.  “Ask anyone in the Common Room.”

“She is!” confirmed William, nodding.

“Well it is expected for Wait for William to help him,” said Amelie.  “He does whatever this boy says.”

Snape was trying to keep up.  He noticed the scalding hot blush of anger and humiliation creeping up the back of Servius’s neck – exactly where he got it himself.

When Amelie opened her mouth again, he held up a hand.  “Enough.  You’re dismissed.  You too, William.  Servius, stay where you are.”

“I am telling my father,” said Amelie.  “This boy will not have any consequences from you.”  Then she swung around so that her plait flipped from one shoulder to another and stomped out of the room, followed by William, who glanced back with aghast, wide eyes.

As soon as the door was shut, Servius started yelling.  “I didn’t _touch_ her stupid paper!  I did not organize a duel – that was her!  It was her idea!  _She_ was the one who hexed William!”

Snape turned slowly and went up the platform steps to his desk, where he began organizing the scrolls into a pile.

“You were asking me about a duel,” said Snape, not looking at him. “You asked me if I would win.”

“The other kids were asking, but it doesn’t mean I was organizing anything.”

“Why should I trust you to be honest with me, Servius?  You haven’t given me any reason to think you value my opinion.”

Servius was almost frantic and his voice raised a notch. “I knew it!  You’ll take her side because you hate me!  And you’re scared of her stupid Dad!  So what?  What are you going to do?  Give me a detention?”

“You lower your voice!  You do not take that tone with me!” barked Snape.  His adult voice took precedence and he commandeered several seconds of silence.  “You were fifteen minutes late and disrupted the entire class.  Then the Hellmann’s girl’s paper just _happens_ to end up in your Dossier.  You’ve shown nothing but contempt and discursion since you’ve been here…I wonder if she might be right.  If you’re not trying to get yourself expelled, you’re trying to embarrass me.”

Servius stared with wide, astonished eyes that revealed he had anticipated his father might come out in his defense.  But not so.  His open mouth slowly shut and he looked away blindly, unwilling to let Snape witness the uprising of tears.  Snape did see them, and also Servius’s swollen, inflamed hand when he quickly rubbed at his brow. 

“Fine,” muttered Servius after a moment.  “I don’t care anyway.  I want to go home.  I hate it here.”

“Detention,” said Snape softly after a chill silence.  “In my office, straight after dinner.  I will inform Professor Slughorn.”

“No!  I won’t come!  Give me detention with another teacher -,”

“You will come as instructed or it will be detention for two nights in a row!”

_“I haven’t done anything wrong!”_

“I am the judge of that!”

Tears were now flowing freely down Servius’s cheeks and Snape could see that it was more than simple resentment over a detention.  Servius was not the crying type, he had good, high reserves of resilience – this was the culmination of a week of utter upheaval, homesickness, loneliness and dismay at an incomprehensible world.  Snape knew that he had made it all immeasurably worse.  After today’s lesson - in fact, as a result of just about every class he’d taken since the week had begun – he had shortlisted for his old title as least-liked teacher in the school.  Another cross he would give Servius to bear.

“Fuck you,” mumbled Servius, and furiously scrubbing at his cheeks with the heel of his hand, he stormed towards the door.  “And do your fucking soap bubble thing, I don’t care!”

But Snape simply watched him go.  He felt sick to his stomach.

 

* * *

Classes had finished for the day and the Great Hall had been converted into a mini Exposition, the dining tables having been replaced by over a dozen stalls and booths, each vividly adorned with signs to entice the full complement of students who had gathered.  These were club sign-ups, and from banners suspended from the sunny, cloudless ceiling depicting handsome wizards and witches in Quidditch uniform, to the Bloody Baron reciting Shakespeare at the Drama and Performing Arts stall, to Hagrid with his tank full of bowtruckles and a Fwooper in a cage, the teachers and Prefects behind the organization of each club had left nothing to chance in order to capture the imagination of potential members.

The students wandered about the Hall from booth to booth, talking with the Club Teacher or Prefect about their club, its merits, its credit potential, its time commitment or any pre-requisites.  Many students already knew what club they wanted to join, and for the senior students it was a simple exercise in queuing up.  Even this could be a challenge when numbers were limited.

 Since Snape didn’t have a club he was hosting, he was leisurely about making his way to the Great Hall after his last class.  He’d been in a foul mood for the remainder of the day after first-year potions and had skipped lunch again in order to give Servius some space.  But McGonagall needed his assistance in the Great Hall and, having run out of distractions and excuses, reluctantly entered the melee with open impatience.

The chaos was not to his taste.  Every student seemed to talk at the top of their voice, in part necessary due to Flitwick’s choir occasionally breaking into song, the booming voice of the operatic Baron and Hagrid guffawing.  Visually it was exhausting as well.  But he stalked around and amongst the stalls trying to maintain a degree of order and control, particularly if a club looked like it might be under pressure.

Two such cases were Quidditch and Dueling.  These clubs were proving to be extremely popular.  Quidditch was unsurprising – that was bread and butter for Hogwarts – but Snape tracked a long, snaking line of students up to the front of the Dueling booth, spotted Servius amongst them, and observed Hellmann at the front, behind his table, talking to the boy at the front of the line.

“Name?  Year?  You’re in Gryffindor? Haff you done dueling before?  Nein – alright, I need to you to pass a test before you can join.”

Snape watched as Hellmann took Edwin Bartrop slightly to the side of the booth and pointed to a marksmanship stand he had erected against the wall, perhaps seven or eight meters distant.  There were three circular, ringed-targets in a row, descending in size.  The targets were slowly moving.  “To join, you must hit all three using the _Assingo_ charm,” said Hellmann.  “Und then I can also decide vich leffel you will be in depending on ze points you earn.”

Edwin seemed to quake a little.  It was a big ask for a first-year still in orientation week, particularly since some of the Muggle-borns had scarcely held a wand before the previous Sunday.  But the boy swallowed a huge ball of nerves and held out his wand before him.  “Point und… _Assingo!_ ” commanded Hellmann.

A faint bluish streak of magic emanated from Edwin’s wand and a blue mark appeared on the outer ring on the first of the targets.  The boy’s face lit up and Hellmann said, “Five points, sehr good. Try ze next one.”

A further two marks were placed on the remaining targets, earning Edwin twenty points in total and the students watching in the queue politely clapped at his successful dueling entry.

“Here you are,” said Hellmann, and gave Edwin a tie-pin with an emblem of crossed wands on it.  “You vear zis in your tie or lapel to show you are a member of ze Dueling Club.  And there’s the club meeting timetable for your Dossier.  Thank you, Edwin. Next!”

There were at least six more students before it would be Servius’s turn.  Not yet having been seen by his son, Snape discreetly turned and left, opting to return a little while later to see how he fared, and made his way over to the Stargazers club being run by Professor Sinistra.

She too was busy, although the aspiring members were far fewer in number.  She had above her stall a free-floating scale-model of the solar system, replete with a dark, revolving night sky, firing comets and astrological signs that moved like little stick figures.  On her booth were moon rocks and a jar labelled “Star dust” although the contents weren’t terribly prepossessing, looking, to Snape’s eye, exactly like the kind of soft grey dirt that accumulated under his bed.

“Professor Snape,” she acknowledged with a smile as he approached, handing to a new member a timetable and a pin (this one sporting a star as its emblem).  “Are you joining?  I seem to remember your knowledge of Saturn’s rings being a little on the sketchy side.”

He returned hers with a small smile.  “No, but I hope that should I need private lessons you might be open to tutelage.”

For a second her eyes widened and smile faltered, but conscious of students waiting their turn, she gave a little, slightly uncertain laugh and said, “Of course.  All you need to do is ask.” She turned back to the Hufflepuff girl at her booth and took down her name on a register.

In a few minutes they had a moment alone, and Sinistra turned to Snape, who stood slightly behind her with his arms crossed, and frowned.  “Severus – I had first-year Slytherins this afternoon and Servius was horrible.  Do you know why?  Has he decided he hates me?”

“Horrible how?”

“Just…you know…grumpy and disinterested and refusing to answer questions I know he knows. Stayed at the back of the group the whole time. I was going to make a fuss of him.”

“Nothing to do with you,” Snape said shortly, a scowl darkening his face.

“Did something happen?”

“Yes.  Something happened.”

She waited expectantly, but Snape’s furrowed brow was set into the middle distance.  After a moment, he seemed to snap out of a reverie and turned his attention to her.  “Are you managing here?  Anything you need?”

“Uh, no, I’m fine -,”

“Professor Sinistra!  I finished my planisphere!” announced Esmae Palmer hurrying up to the booth with her blue and bronze robe flying out behind her, holding her Dossier forth.  “Sign me up again.  Can I have another pin?!”

When Sinistra turned around again, Snape had gone.

Slughorn’s principle method of signing up students to the Slug Club hadn’t changed much over the decades, but the objective was now different.  The purpose of the Slug Club was to teach Prefects through to seventh-years how to prepare themselves for the adult world, particularly if they would be entering society, in roles of significance or the public eye, intending to hold public office or needed assistance in preparing for higher education (which also, largely, meant tertiary Muggle).  He coached in public speaking, speechmaking, networking, interviewing, career planning, time management, presentation, even how to dress formally.   His club had contributed to the appointment of several successful civil servants, including to the staff of Buckingham Palace (a point of great pride to Slughorn), a TV sports presenter, a plastic surgeon, several entrepreneurs and even a handful of graduates to Silicon Valley, which reflected entirely on their magical and player skills and not at all at their technical acumen.

But today, when Snape approached him, he was only in conversation with two or three Prefects and looked happy to be distracted.  “Ah, Severus,” he said, with a tired smile as he absently handed over a pin with a bow-tie emblem to his new member.  “I was hoping to catch you.”

“Horace?”

“The Slytherins are already at it, I’m afraid.  Would you believe they started a bet on who would win in a duel between yourself and Benedict?”

“I had heard something…” murmured Snape, unable to help himself cast a glance over at the DADA teacher, who was in the middle of assisting a first-year with their wand technique.

“I’m afraid Servius’s name came up…”

“I don’t believe he’s behind it.  I think it might be Hellmann’s daughter.”

“It’s the gambling that I had to take issue with,” continued Slughorn.  “Lewis Blake in fourth year wrote them down in his Dossier.”

“Did Servius make any bets?” Snape asked immediately.

“No.  But there were some sizeable numbers against your name, I should add,” Slughorn advised with a wink.

Snape heaved a sigh.  “That just means they think it more likely I’d lose.  Dueling seems to have taken some profile this year.  The rumour is that Hellmann trained a champion.”

“Oh no, that’s not a rumour,” replied Slughorn, eyebrows raised.  “The Brockhaus boy was outstanding.  I went to Bonn for the finals.  Here’s hoping Hellmann can produce a champion for Hogwarts, eh?”

Slughorn was interrupted by Connie Stevens, who really needed a larger sized shirt, but Slughorn was masterful in keeping his eyes on her face.

Snape glanced over to the Dueling queue and saw that William was currently attempting the test and Servius would be next.  Making his departure from Slughorn, he kept a low profile amongst the crowds of students to find a discreet spot from which to observe, and, as William fired his spells at the targets, he noticed that Servius made several searching glances around the room while he waited, almost missing his friend’s successful third hit and cheerful hopping on the spot as a result.

Snape saw Servius shake William’s hand, and then William clapped Servius on the back as he stepped forward and answered some registration details for Hellmann.  The three targets had cleared themselves of _Assingo_ marks in preparation for Servius’s attempt.

Servius took his larchwood wand out of his back pocket – a habit of which Snape was going to have to cure him apparently, even though it should have been the Prefects or Slughorn – and roughly brushed his hair out of his eyes as he squinted hard at the three, slowly moving targets.  Some Slytherin boys still waiting in the queue began making encouraging remarks and Servius raised his wand.

“Ready?” asked Hellmann, and Servius nodded.

Snape couldn’t look away but he also couldn’t bear to watch.  He was suddenly gripped with a terrible nervousness on behalf of his son, and recalled how much of youth was made up of tests: academic, sporting and life – so many life tests, tests you weren’t even aware you were participating in.  If Servius didn’t make the targets, he decided he would step in and demand Hellmann give him another go, it would merely be some kind of slip-up, there was no way Servius couldn’t hit those things, even if he had only used a wand for a handful of days.

And then Servius fired his first _Assingo_ and Snape held his breath.

A hit.  About three rings in from the outer edge.

“Very good,” said Hellmann briskly, “Ten points.  Fire again please.”

Snape could see Servius exhale deeply and raise his wand again, concentrating hard.  He fired.

Another hit.  William and the other boys gave a small clap – this hit was much closer in, and Snape saw a small smile on his son’s face.  Snape smiled himself.

“Trefflich.  Last one, nice und quick Danke.”

The third target was smaller and moving – Snape believed – much faster than the others.  Had Hellmann just speeded it up? He’d knock his damn glasses off if he was deliberately making this harder for Servius –

“ _Assingo!_ ”  said Servius and fired, the faint _huzzing_ sound of his wand clear in the sudden quiet.  Time slowed.  Snape thought he could see the blue light fly through the air, realized he’d not only stopped breathing but also his heart had stopped beating.  The target moved slowly upwards – had Servius accounted for the trajectory, had he factored in the time and distance correctly? He closed his eyes…and then there was cheering.

“Sehr gut!” said Hellmann.  “Look at zat.  Forty points. Here, come get your pin.”

Servius was grinning and so, Snape suddenly realized, was he.  In fact he had clapped, twice, before catching himself, and demurely placed his hands together behind his back.  He watched as Servius stuck his dueling pin in his lapel and William danced about him gleefully.

“Next!” commanded Hellmann and the queue shuffled up.  The whole thing had taken no longer than five minutes, but Snape may as well have seen his son stand on a podium and accept some kind of medal.  He’d just been given a short sharp shot of paternal pride, and the first one was the benchmark that drove parents far harder than the child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II has been posted


	19. The Bad Day Part II

Servius and William headed off for the Quidditch sign-ups and Snape took a deep breath to calm himself, and then turning found himself face to face with McGonagall, one brow arched. 

“Are you spying on Servius?” she asked. 

“Ma’am.  Perhaps a little.”

“I see he just got into dueling.  I expect he’ll take after you in that respect.  Let’s see what comes of it.  Now – I’ve something to discuss, because I’m a little concerned.  Neville said he has two Gryffindor seniors come to him very worried that you’ve decided they won’t pass potions.  What’s this about?”

Longbottom.  Straight on to the Headmistress.  “I haven’t decided anything Ma’am, but I was direct with the students that it is unlikely all of them will pass.”

“Why ever not?”

“They shouldn’t be there,” he said simply.  “They barely acquired their OWLs.”

“And yet they _did_ qualify.  I know you’ve been out of teaching for a while, but did you really think that was the best way to set the tone for the year?”

“They will not make Potioneers, Ma’am. They would be better off investing their time and energy into something at which they’ll succeed.  I’d rather not wait until half-way through for them to arrive at the same conclusion.”

“But Severus – you’ve now made it a self-fulfilling prophesy!  Neville said their confidence has dropped so low they may never know their full potential!  Few have your experience, Severus, I grant you, but you do not have that kind of foresight.”

“Ma’am,” said Snape coolly, thinking that in fact he practically did.  “I think Professor Longbottom would be better to talk frankly with those students and find an alternative for them rather than fill them with false hope which will do nothing but make it worse when the inevitable strikes too late.”

“Or perhaps he can coach them to rise above your predictions of a future you’ve damned for them?”

She held his eyes with a control that convinced him she meant it.  He hadn’t crossed swords with McGonagall like this since the war, and on similar circumstances – there was a kernel in the heart of her that was sometimes prepared to believe the worst of him, never could quite set aside her Gryffindor contempt of his Slytherin origins.

“Longbottom is always welcome to see me himself if he has issues with my teaching.”

“I’ll pass that along.  And here is my final word on the matter.  My expectation of all my teachers is that they set up their students to achieve, not fail.  You will teach those seniors, Severus, as if they were already Potioneers.  You will give them everything they need to pass their NEWTs. If ultimately, they fail, then at least you can sleep at night knowing you gave it all you had.  Am I clear?”

Snape was quiet as he listened.  Were this conversation happening with Dumbledore, he would have risen up and defended himself and his logic.  But McGonagall…he could see she’d had to summon some nerve to put her foot down with him.  She couldn’t bring herself to tell him, outright, that he was wrong, but she made it fairly evident.  And he bristled.

“Sir?” came a voice behind him.  “Headmistress?”

He turned.  The question had been voiced by a prefect in Ravenclaw colours; the boy’s badge read Marshall Burns.  “There’s a first-year kid who’s trying to get other kids to sign up for a football club.  There’s no football club, is there Ma’am?”

“Football?” repeated McGonagall, frowning.   “Where?”

“By the Harmony Club, Ma’am,” said Marshall Burns, pointing towards an emptier corner of the Hall.

McGonagall hurried off, and Snape followed close behind thinking Servius would almost certainly sign up for a football club if one had been established.

But he hadn’t expected it to be Servius himself, sitting at a small, previously unused table with his Dossier open before him, scribbling down the names of a small knot of students who’d gathered and were looking rather excited by the prospect of forming a football team.  Hanging from the front of the table was a poster of some English football players, the dull, slightly crumpled condition of the paper indicating this had been brought from home, presumably intended for his dorm.  Beside him on the table was a scuffed football, and a supporters scarf was draped from the top of one pole to another overhead, substituting as a banner.

McGonagall propped at the sight of him and turned quickly to Snape.  “Merlin’s beard – it’s Servius!” And then she smiled but covered it with her hand as she looked at him. “Shall I step in?”

Snape glanced about.  Trelawney was occupied with some students at her Harmony booth but she was half-watching, presumably a little confused about the unusual turn of events.  Other than that, Servius hadn’t drawn too much attention to himself and he said to McGonagall: “I’d be grateful if you could let me deal with this?”

“By all means.  But I’m curious, so I’ll remain here.”

Snape came round to approach the front of the football booth where Servius could see him.  And it only took a moment, Snape seeming to loom over the heads of the students.  Snape had folded his arms and assumed a grave expression, and the students waiting to sign up parted like the Red Sea to let him through.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked Servius, who only held his eyes for a second or two before dropping them to stare at nothing, demurring but not willingly.

“What’s it look like?” Servius then retorted, and then looked up again, full of challenge.  Wait for William, who was sitting beside Servius, looked highly alarmed and nudged Servius.

“Where did you get authorisation to start a club, Servius?”

“I didn’t.  I didn’t know you needed to get authori-whatsit.   I just know that a group of us kids want to play footy.”

“That’s right, sir!” said Hufflepuff Godfrey Flinders, nodding his head earnestly.  Snape noticed that Godfrey was joined by the other children who had gathered around in nodding and positive murmuring.

“Football is not played at Hogwarts, Servius.  I don’t mind if you kick a ball around in your free time, but it is not an organized sport.  Take down your booth.”

“Why can’t it be played?” asked Servius.  His tone had a bit more attitude than a simple enquiry – it was more of a demand.  When Snape looked at him, the boy’s eyes met his with their trademark glittering.

“In this world, we play Quidditch,” replied Snape, but without much conviction.  He’d never played Quidditch.

“Is that because football’s a Muggle sport, sir?” asked sixth year Gryffindor Ben Strutton.  “A lot of us kids used to play it at home.  Is Hogwarts _intolerant_ of Muggle sport, sir?”

Snape flashed his eyes at Ben.  “Are you taking a tone with me, Strutton?”

“I’m asking a question, sir.  I agree with Servius – why can’t we play football?”

“There is no coach, no-one to supervise the club.  It is something you can play at home in the holidays.  Servius – I won’t ask you again, take down the booth.”

“We can organize it ourselves,” said another prefect that Snape didn’t know.  “We were told that Muggle-born and Muggle-raised kids would be welcome at Hogwarts.  The school is trying to pretend that the Muggle world doesn’t exist or isn’t as good.”

“I reckon Professor Oosthuizen would supervise the club!” added Lavinia Prevost.  “She knows all about Muggle sports.”

“I’m a pureblood and I’d like to play football,” said Ravenclaw Primus Dawson.

“Maybe we should bring it to the Student Consultation Committee,” said Ben Strutton, who definitely _was_ taking a tone with Snape.  “Aren’t you organizing that, sir?  Can I put my name down for that, sir?  Or is that only pureblood kids?”

“Watch it Strutton or I’m taking points,” glowered Snape.

“When is the SCC starting?” asked the unknown Prefect.  “I’d like to join that too.  I think Hogwarts needs to explain why we can’t play football if we want.”

“Me too,” said Servius.

“You take down this booth right now.  The rest of you – clear off, or I’m taking five points from each you.  Right now!”

“I’m going to ask Professor Oosthuizen!” declared Lavinia Prevost, and dashed away before Snape could do anything.  Ben Strutton and the other prefect gave a last, surly look at Snape before departing and he didn’t have any doubts whatsoever that this was far from the end of the matter.  The other children scarpered.

Servius took down his scarf and slowly began to wind it up.  Hatred seemed to emanate in waves.  William, looking far more worried than angry took down the poster and folded it.  “Take those back to your dorm,” barked Snape, glaring at them.  “Right now before I confiscate them.”  The two boys walked away in the direction of the entrance.

When they were out of sight, Snape closed his eyes and hung his head back, then raised a hand and massaged his brow wearily.

“Perhaps you should put your name down for the Harmony Club,” suggested McGonagall quietly, coming to his side.  “You need to find some inner peace.”

“Did you hear them, Ma’am?  They think the school is prejudiced against Muggles.  I didn’t almost lose my life in the war for that to get thrown in my face.”

“ _Is_ that the reason we don’t allow football?”

“It was probably quite sensibly banned because it is a dreadful, appalling sport.”

“But it’s extraordinarily popular amongst Muggles.”

“I hated it.”  Snape recalled the dismal games organized for school PE, freezing cold, his skinny legs covered in mud, swearing that if the fucking ball came anywhere near him he would cast a _Diffindo_ and shred it (despite having no means whatsoever to do it).

“Well you don’t have to play, Severus.  So do we have a reason for not allowing it?”

“I don’t know, Ma’am.  It hasn’t come up before.  Perhaps Dumbledore will know.”

“I’ll ask him,” she said, with a small smile.  “And perhaps you better start getting names for the Consultation Committee.  I did ask you, Severus.”

“Ma’am,” he said, but it came out more as gut-wrenching sigh.

About forty-five minutes later, the club sign-ups came to a close.  The students were sent off to their common rooms and dorms to do homework and prepare for dinner while the Great Hall was restored for dining.  The teachers began to dismantle their booths and displays.  Snape had taken a spare registration form of Slughorn’s and the last half hour resignedly sought the names of members for the SCC, unsurprised that the first nominee was Ben Strutton and the unknown Prefect (who turned out to be Laurence Owen of Hufflepuff – no doubt a favourite of Oosthuizen’s).

He was heading towards the door of the Great Hall, determined to take a long swig from the neck of his bottom-drawer whisky bottle in his office, when he heard “Professor Snape!”

The accent immediately told him it was Hellmann.  He was still at his dueling booth, gathering up his generous bundle of registration forms, and smiled at him.  Was it a smug smile?  Snape thought it highly likely.

He grudgingly approached the DADA instructor.  “Professor?”

“I hear you are to beat me in a duel!” said Hellmann jovially.  “I am told you fought in ze Vampire Uprising of 2001.”

“There was no Uprising,” replied Snape moderately.  “That was simple speculation gone rife.  Typical vampire propaganda.”

“So you vere there?”

“I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

Hellmann laughed.  “I’m merely trying to gauge mein opponent, Professor. I jest. Und vot are we to do about these rumours of a duel?”

“I understand Slughorn has made short work of it.  I propose we ignore it.”

Hellmann’s eyebrows shot up.  “So I can’t interest you in a little target practice?”  He indicated towards his slowly moving targets.

“I don’t think so -,”

“Quatsch!  Come now, a little target?!  I’ll give 20 points head start!”

Snape could almost feel his wand vibrating – it had been some days since he’d used it for anything other than housekeeping.  He studied the targets.

“Then zis dueling nonsense is all at an end, ja?  Kommen sie.  One round.”

“Fine.  Make it fast though, I have things to do.”

“Prima, Professor.  I will speed up the targets; these is for ze kinder…” With a wave of Hellmann’s wand, the targets began speedily and erratically moving around in a fixed area against the wall.  “And here is ze standing spot.”

Hellmann quickly moved into the middle of the Great Hall, a further five metres away, almost colliding with Hagrid carrying a small basket of something wriggly.  “From here.  Your best shots in zehn sekunden.”

Feeling some reservation, but in no way prepared to back down, Snape took up position.  His trusty wand slipped into his hand, the grip almost moulded to his palm after so many years.

“Ven you’re ready, Professor.  Just say -,”

“I’m ready.”

“Und…STARTEN!”

Snape instantly raised his wand and zeroed in on the targets, selecting the largest one first and blocking the others out.  “Eins…zwei…” he dimly heard Hellmann counting.

The target would move predictably one way, then abruptly change direction entirely.  Just like a human would.  Or rather…a mouse.

Snape had practiced target-shooting with his wand as a teenager, at home in his room, with flies.  When his parents died, and he was confined to the house during the investigation and the post-accident autopsy, he spent many hours thus, killing time during summer afternoons, absorbing events by increment, opening vaults in his head and shoving stuff in them.  The flies had been attracted to the bloodstain at the bottom of the stairs.  No amount of bleach seemed to change that.

Now he used mice. _Leave the mice alone_ …Charity had said once.  Not likely.

“ _Assingo!_ ”  He fired his first shot and it hit home nicely.

“Bravo!  Vier…funf..”

The second target was smaller.  He blocked the others out, blocked everything out, his eyes trained on it and imagined a mouse.  His wand seemed to shimmy with excitement.

“ _Assingo!_ ” The second shot hit just outside the bullseye.

“Sehr gut!  Sieben..”

Snape heard a clapping.  He was distracted and heard Hellmann say “Acht..”

The third target was smaller again. It was like a two-dimensional snitch zipping about.  He picked his moment, picked where he thought the target would be and his magic would hit after travelling the distance …then: “ _Assingo!_ ”

The blue zap hit the target on the outer edge of the smallest target.  If it had been a mouse, he would have hit the tail.  It did happen.

“…Zehn!” announced Hellmann.  He clapped his hands, smiling, but the clapping behind him was what he’d heard earlier.

Heart thumping, Snape turned.  It was Hagrid and Sinistra. “Wazz you thinkin’ of Death Ea’ers, Sev’rus?” asked Hagrid, eyebrows lofty. 

“Wow!” said Sinistra.

Hellmann came up and shook his hand generously.  Then he headed off to the targets to collate the score.

Snape couldn’t ignore the thrill he felt, the unconscious smile on his face was evidence.  His hand open and closed around the grip of his wand, as if patting it.  He was mostly happy with how he’d done, if he hadn’t got distracted on the last one…he was oddly gratified that Sinistra had seen it…

“Two-hundred and twenty-five.  Two fifty is ze perfect score.  Bemerkenswert, you are very accomplished, Professor Snape. A worthy opponent.  Vill you do me the honours?”

Hellmann had taken up position.  The targets had been cleared and were moving about.

“Certainly,” said Snape, feeling unexpectedly energized.  “Are you ready?”

“READY!” responded Hellmann with fervour, staring fixedly at the targets, wand raised.

“And…START!”

Hellmann fired almost immediately.  He too selected the largest target and he too got a bullseye.

“Good, good, uh two, three -.”

Another fire and Hellmann zapped the second largest target.  This was also a bullseye.  Snape could hardly believe it and forgot to count.

“Professor?”

“Uh – very..very good, uh, five…six…”

Hellmann took a moment longer this time. Snape could see him concentrating and he muttered something under his breath.  The wand pointed forward, and Hellmann shouted “ _Assingo!_ ”

The smallest target shot upwards just as Hellmann had said the incantation.  But unbelievably, the blue light shot home and hit the target, about midway from the bullseye.

“…eight,” counted Snape, staring.  “Nine.  Ten.”

Hellmann was standing straight, smiling at Snape when he turned back.  “Ah.  I enjoyed zis!”

“That was...very good.”

“Perhaps Hagrid could count the scores?” suggested Hellmann.

“I’ll count them.” A voice behind him.  Snape looked round and saw Longbottom.  The Herbology Professor was already walking towards the target before Snape could object.

“Zank you, Professor!” said Hellmann, smiling broadly.  More teachers were gathering round, their arms laden with display materials and forms.

“Benedict, that was outstanding,” squeaked Flitwick, bundled with choir paraphernalia and a banner.  “Allow me to shake your hand later!”

Snape glared at Flitwick the turncoat.

Longbottom hurried back to the group with a gloating smile.  “Two-hundred and forty.  Almost a perfect score.  Well done, Benedict!  Haven’t seen the like!” He stuck out a hand and shook Hellmann’s enthusiastically.

“You were both excellent,” said Sinistra stoutly.

“Professor Snape made me rise to ze occasion!” said Hellmann.  “I had my vork cut out!”

Snape swallowed, stepped towards Hellmann and put out his hand. “Exceptional,” he muttered as they shook.

“Perhaps ve could have a schnapps to celebrate?” offered Hellmann, as the other teachers began to move off.  “I have some in my office?”

“Dad?  You said you’d help me with my homework.”

It was Amelie.  Who knew where she’d come from, perhaps there the whole time?  Snape didn’t know, but the girl looked at him while she spoke to her father.

“Ja, ja – soon, okay?  Go back to the Common Room now.”

“Amelie?”  It was McGonagall. “Why are you out of your rooms?  Please now…”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she hurried off.  McGonagall watched her go, then turned back to Hellmann and Snape.  “Really?”

“Ma’am,” said Snape, straightening.  “It was nothing serious -,”

“It vas my idea,” offered Hellmann.

“Do I have to give you both detention?” asked McGonagall.  “And in front of students as well?  Please gentlemen – remember you’re meant to be setting an example.  But well played, Benedict.”

McGonagall moved off, tapping her wand-tip in her hand as she went.  Snape didn’t doubt for a second that she couldn’t give Hellmann a run for his money.

 

* * *

 

 

It was eight at night, and Snape was in his office.  He was seated, waiting, feeling the warmth of the fire as it snapped and crackled, the two snifters of whisky he’d snuck in mellowing the sharp, jagged perceptions he held of the day – the scabrous progress of it had almost left scratches on him.  He had undone his cravat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and, leaning on his desk, when he rested his chin on his hand he could feel the roughness of bristles already.

With his other hand, he held up the parchment that had Servius’s assignment on it from that morning’s class.  Like most youngsters learning to use a quill, the handwriting was virtually illegible, and blotched with inkspots.  But in deciphering the mangled wording, Snape learnt that Servius’s grasp of the assignment’s problem, and his proposed solution, were spot on.  His theorem was absolutely correct: the boy had got it.  It was early days, there had been but one class – however a good fifty percent of his classmates – including William, who manifestly had _not_ been copying – hadn’t passed that assignment; could it be that his son had the makings of a Potioneer?

A knock at the office door, and Snape wearily lifted his wand to unlock it.  “Enter.”

Michael Tattinger opened the door.  Prefects were required to escort first-years if they needed to leave the common room at night.  Behind him came Servius, still dressed in uniform.  On the lapel of his robe, three pins blinked back the light of the candle sconces.

“Sir?  He has detention sir?”

“Thank you.  I will return him.”

Tattinger left and Servius stood in the doorway, looking about him.

“My office,” said Snape, and with his wand, shut the door behind the boy. “So I can work while you do your time.”

“What are those?” asked Servius, pointing to the shelves of bottles and conserved things.

Snape glanced at the shelf.  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“What’s in all the jars?”

“Have you never been to a museum?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you should recognize preserved specimens. Some of the others are potions and some of the others are ingredients.  Now sit – you’re not on tour, this is detention.”

Still curiously gazing about him, Servius sat at the chair on the opposite side of the wide desk from Snape.  Once he was settled, he drew his brows together and stared sullenly at this father, black eyes sparking.  “So?”

Snape regarded him a moment, then lifted up the assignment parchment for Servius to see.  “I’ve been marking this.  You did well.  I believe you that you didn’t copy from the Hellmann girl, hers is superior again.  But despite your deplorable conduct in my class today, it appears you’re capable of grasping some fundamental potions theory.”

“So if you believe me that I didn’t steal her paper, why am I here?”  His prospects of a future in potioneering obviously made no difference to the boy whatsoever.

“I didn’t know that at the time, and you are on detention for other reasons.  Why did she try to get you in trouble?”

“I don’t know.  She’s been doing that all week.”

“Professor Hellmann and Professor Slughorn have both told me about the dueling gamble.  I know that you didn’t place a bet.  Why did you agree to it at all?” asked Snape.

Servius looked uncomfortable.  “They were all wanting to know whether you’d win.  So I said of course you would.” He fixed his gaze on a Hippogriff knuckle bone on Snape’s desk.

A warm glow sprang up in Snape’s heart, and his lips twitched, but he refused to smile.  “Well thank you for your vote of confidence.  I should tell you now before you hear it from Miss Hellmann that I in fact lost to Professor Hellmann in a target shooting duel earlier.”

“You lost?” said Servius, looking up in dismay. “Aw man.  By much?”

“No.  Not much,” he cleared his throat.  “I am a little…out of practice.  How is your hand?”

Servius shrugged and waggled it a bit.  “’S’alright.”

“What caused the swelling?”

“A spine from a dumb spiky plant or something in Herbology.”

Snape frowned. “Did Professor Longbottom give you mature plants to work on?  That’s not appropriate for first-years…”

“No it was just little.”

“Then how did the prickle get through your glove?”

Servius picked up the Hippogriff bone and toyed with it.  “Wasn’t wearing gloves.  Didn’t know we were supposed to.”

“But Longbottom would have -,”

“We were late.  We missed the bit about putting gloves on.”

And apparently Longbottom hadn’t thought fit to bring them up to speed before starting the practical.  Snape didn’t comment but a low thundercloud of anger rumbled distantly. He wondered if warning Servius about Longbottom was appropriate.

“Professor Sinistra said you were horrible in her class today.  I think that is a poor way to repay her for her kindness last night.”

“I had Astronomy pretty much straight after your class!” said Servius heatedly.  “I was already pissed-off and then all the other kids were calling you an arsehole and stuff.  Those Gryffindor kids are looking for a square-up...”

“No fighting, do you hear?  You do not throw a punch. And watch your language.”

“Well what am I supposed to do when they’re slagging you off?”

Servius’s appeal to him was genuine, and Snape was non-plussed.  “I would have thought you’d join in…”

“ _I’m_ allowed to slag you off; they’re not!”

Snape paused to consider his words, knowing _exactly_ what he meant.  They were family.  Only family could complain about each other.

“Can you not…can you just not be such a git?” said Servius plaintively, frowning at his own knuckles now, but not seeing them.  “The other kids think I must be like you.”

There was a length of silence in which Servius studied his hands and Snape studied him.  Snape had no idea how to respond to that request.  He himself was indifferent to the opinions of the students and had been for years, but he hadn’t thought about how it would reflect on his son, struggling to fit in.  The boy was caught between defending his father and proving he wasn’t the same.  It was painful to learn your child was doing all they could to prove they were not like you.

He exhaled heavily and said, “I shall…try.”  Then he added: “Is setting up football team about that?  Trying to make friends?”

“A bunch of us just want to play footy.  It’s fun.”

“How did you set up the booth…?”

“I brought stuff with me and when Will found a spare table I set it up.  Some kids knew I was gonna do it, kids who wanted to join.”

“Did it not occur to you to ask whether that would be permitted?”

“Nope.  I didn’t think it would be a big deal.  And now all those kids think you’re a plonker as well.”

Snape sighed and crossed his arms.  “Servius, this has been a bad day.”

Servius nodded somewhat forlornly.  “And having my father give me my first detention – everyone thinks that’s hilarious.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Snape quietly. 

“So what do I have to do?  Write lines?”

Snape had selected his detention task for Servius immediately after first-year potions.  He reached into the side-drawer of his desk and withdrew some sheets of parchment and a quill and passed them across the desk to Servius.  “There’s an ink-pot just there.”

“Lines?”

“A letter, Servius.  To your friends, to your Grandparents – to someone at home whom you miss.”

There was that clearing on the face of Servius, as he contemplated the fine, blank parchment, that rare expression when his brows relaxed and his eyes took their full almond-shape and his lips were allowed to be full.  And Snape stared because then…then he could make out some of Charity in him, so ephemeral it was like smoke, a cloud passing, the seconds just before the sun dipped below the horizon. At that moment, Servius was so exquisite it almost hurt.

“Okay…” Servius dipped his quill in the ink; failed to tap it. “They’ll think it’s sick to get a letter from an owl…”

Snape then went to his secret draw and withdrew the enchanted parchments.  “I’ll be writing a letter myself.”

“Who are you writing to?”

Snape hesitated.  Then said softly, “To your mother, in fact.”

He could feel Servius’s eyes boring into him.  “How does mum get a letter?”

“She may never get it.  But I…like to think she might,” replied Snape in such an inward-facing voice that Servius leaned forward to hear. 

“If you still love Mum now, how come you weren’t married to her when I was little?”

Snape’s heart thumped a touch harder than normal and he waited some moments before answering.  He couldn’t look at Servius while he spoke.  “She…it was the war…I had to fight…she was protecting you, Servius.”

“Is that where you got that?” asked Servius, pointing at the scar on Snape’s neck.  “Fighting in the war?”

Snape unconsciously covered it with his fingers.  “In a manner.  Yes.”

“But you, you know, _wanted_ to be with us?”

The truth…how could there be so many versions of it? Surely truth could only be only.  And yet…eventually Snape replied, “Yes.  I…wanted to be with you.”

Perhaps with a wisdom beyond his years, Servius left it there.

And the Snape’s, on either side of the desk, in candlelight and silence, wrote their letters.  The younger fidgeted and scratched, and once or twice scrunched up his paper in frustration.  The elder took longer to start composing and, after a few minutes, withdrew his bottle of whisky from the bottom drawer, poured a finger into a decidedly grubby tumbler concealed behind a short tower of books and took a hearty draught. Then picked up the quill again and proceeded to write.

Servius had written but three paragraphs and then decided he’d finished.  Seeing Snape still engrossed, he got up from his chair and began to inspect the jars and bottles on the shelves.  The only sound was the crackle of the fire and Snape’s rasping quill.  And then, presently, there was a clearing of his throat and Snape sat back in his chair.

“Are you finished?” Snape asked.

“Yep.”

“Fold it and pass it to me.  I will seal it.”

“You don’t wanna read it?”

“Should I?”

“It’s kinda private.”

“Then no, I don’t need to read it.”

Servius folded the parchment clumsily and handed it over to Snape, who dripped candlewax on the fold and impressed a Hogwarts seal.

His own letter, he tapped with his wand and said almost under his breath: “ _Convey._ ”  His writing before his eyes faded away, sending his message across magical planes, fields, spheres or dimensions of which he knew not, to – he hoped – another world again, additionally foreign to him, but across which all, must surely, exist the language of love.  That tongue was indifferent to lexicon or dialect or even realm.  All he really believed is that Charity would know it and understand it.

“Shall we take your letter to post it?” he asked Servius, draining his glass.

“Huh?”

“Your owl. I think he has been unoccupied for a few days.  Shall we give him some useful work?”

“Now?” checked Servius, hope bringing lightness to his features.

“I will give you my old winter cloak.  Come along, quickly now, bring your letter.”

They stopped briefly by Snape’s quarters to acquire the cloaks, the one for Servius, though warm, trailed along the ground behind him.  Then they bent their steps towards the owlery which, to Servius’s extreme delight, necessitated access to the grounds via a secret passageway, the access to which was through a dungeon holding cell, replete with chains and wrist-cuffs.  Snape didn’t often use this passage but each time he did, he wondered what function the Four Founders had intended for this room, and had a dire suspicion that it would have been on the insistence of Salazar. He also suspected the tunnel had been made by someone held in the cell.  Or perhaps the whole thing had been an elaborate prank.  Irrespective, he could hear behind him the appreciative mutterings of his son as he led Servius by wandlight along the dank, moss-coated tunnel, cautioning him to step around the occasional mummified remains of an unfortunate creature who’d found their way in, but not back out.

The secret passage opened onto the north-east of the castle grounds, the land being of rough lawn and rock and presently almost invisible under a dense fog.  Snape said “Nox,” and allowed Servius to behold the silent, glowing, imperceptibly moving landscape under the bright light of the super moon.

“Aw, that’s cool,” murmured Servius, gazing around him.  “Can we go in the Forbidden Forest?”

“No…no I wouldn’t recommend going in there.  Come, hurry, the owlery is this way.”

They set off, Snape keen now to reach their destination.  It was cold and the grass was sodden.  He walked fast and Servius was forced to keep up, the too-long winter cloak absorbing dew and mud, but he didn’t say a word, not wanting to give Snape any reason to change his mind about this unexpected adventure.

The owlery itself was signalled some way out by the flightpaths of various owls leaving and returning, never heard and only glimpsed when they moved over their heads.  Hooting and screeching became audible as they neared the tower, and at the foot of it they could see owls launching from the purpose-built arched holes peppered into the stone.

“He’s probably out hunting,” said Servius, his attention upwards as he watched the birds.  “I’ll try calling him.”

“I’d rather not go in,” concurred Snape, his recollection of the owlery interior being wholly unpleasant.  It wasn’t even all the eye-watering droppings, which Filch vainly tried to keep on top of, but the carpet of regurgitated fur and bones which had the feel of walking on a slightly crunchy sponge.

Servius put two fingers to his lips and emitted an extremely impressive three-note whistle, and before long they both saw an owl come out of the darkness purposefully towards them.  To his upheld hand, the owl landed, flapping his wings and bobbing his head, clearly expecting some kind of treat.  Servius had none, and Snape hoped that somehow the owl would instead take as reward the evident delight and affection showered on it by the boy, whose wide, guileless smile was so singular and so beautiful that Snape couldn’t look away.

“How are you mate?” muttered Servius, as the owl leaned in and lowered his head so that the back could be scratched.  “I missed you Täne.  Do you like it here?  Have you made lots of friends?”

The questions, Snape mused, reflected in value the uppermost concerns for himself.  He waited patiently, his feet freezing, as Servius drew comfort from his avian companion.  “What time did it take for Tane to reach Trowbridge from here?”  he asked when a moment presented itself.  “I sent him to you at 7:30 sharp.”

“I don’t know for sure because he was waiting for me in a tree when we got home, and we’d been out for three hours. But I don’t reckon it would have been as long as ten hours.”

“Then he’s a good owl.”

“He’s the best.  Täne – I want you to deliver this letter to Matty Mathieson, he goes to Kingsdown    School but I can’t remember his house address.”  Servius looked at Snape.  “Will Tane know how to find him?”

“Does Matty Mathieson have a bedroom?”

“Yeah.  A corner one upstairs.”

“And will master Mathieson be alarmed by an owl arriving at his bedroom window?”

“No way, he’d think it’s brilliant!”

Snape turned to the owl.  “Täne, take this to the upstairs corner bedroom window of Matty Mathieson in Trowbridge, but only after dark when the bedroom light is on.  Fly direct, await a reply and return to deliver.”

Servius handed the letter to Täne who clasped it tightly in his beak and launched into the darkness, disappearing in moments above the gloom of the Forbidden Forest.  Servius wrapped the cloak around himself tighter, then raised his eyes to his father’s.  “Thanks.  This is really cool.  I have a feeling this is not like a normal detention.”

Snape grunted laughter and began the trek onwards towards the front entrance of Hogwarts, completing a half-circuit of the castle.  It was uphill, and they left the fog below them, their eyes now drawn upwards to the night sky that looked as if it had been sprinkled with grains of light.  They were silent, but it was not acrimonious – an undercurrent of familial accord filled the space, and as they passed Hagrid’s dark and shuttered hut, Fisk joined the wordless procession.  When they reached the courtyard, their boots and paws left wet footprints on the paving stones and they now breathed small plumes from the mild exertion of ascending the hill.

Snape opened the heavy oak doors with a password spell and Servius gave the deerhound a generous patting before they both entered, and the door shut behind them.

 

* * *

 

Being a Friday night, the Prefects and Seniors were still socialising in the Slytherin Common Room and looked up in surprise when Servius came through the door.  “Have you only just finished detention?!” asked Tattinger in amazement.  “What did you have you do?  Were you cleaning cauldrons?  I heard he used to make kids clean every cauldron in the Brewing Chamber.”

“Nah,” shrugged Servius, already edging his way past the staring students towards the dorms.  “It wasn’t so bad.  Lines.”

“Blimey.  Must’ve been a lot of ‘em,” muttered Reggie Chiverton.

“I better get to bed,” said Servius, and gave them a grin before slipping through the door. 

In the dorm, he lit a small candle sconce beside his bed, glad that half a dozen kids were still awake and talking softly or reading.  He swiftly changed into his pyjamas, but before scrambling under the covers of his bed, he took Sinistra’s starry blanket that he had hidden beneath his pillow and wrapped it round his feet, then with his wand, mumbled the incantation Sinistra had taught him that made the blanket snuggle up tightly and warm his frozen toes.

It was then he noticed a pale, ash-coloured moth land on the blanket.  He brushed it off and shoved his bundled-up feet beneath the covers of his bed.  The moth returned and landed on his hand.  He flicked it away.  The moth landed on his pillow, just where he was about to lay his head.

“What the -?” he half-whispered.  “Clear off.”

The moth beat an erratic orbit around his head and he stared at it.  Was it a magic moth?  Was that a thing here?

Thinking he might check with Hagrid, he reached out to try and grasp it.  The moth lifted lightly away and came to settle against the stone stretch of wall alongside his bed.  It opened and closed its wings slowly and scuttered about on the irregular face of the stone.

Servius was now curious.  He watched a moment then reached out.  The moth seemed to wait.  His hand closed over the fluttering insect and at the same moment, the light pressure of his hand against the small section of wall was given way by the stone block shifting, and he shrank back in surprise.  The moth fluttered about him and settled once more on the same spot.

Servius could see an inside edge of the adjoining block of stone.  He leaned over and gave it a slight push and there was a gravelly noise as the heavy brick shifted.  The moth fluttered upwards and then landed again.

He glanced about quickly, seeing if anyone had noticed but the dorm was unchanged.  Tentatively he pushed the stone a little further and one end edged inwards while the opposite end came out.  The entire stone was clearly loose and with a careful grip on either end, he wiggled it free, flinching slightly at the rough, grinding sound.

In the cavity behind the half-brick something had been hidden.  “ _Lumos_ ,” Servius whispered, and his wand gave a soft ‘hizz’ and lit.  He pointed it inside the cavity and saw what appeared to be two notebooks, their covers chestnut-coloured and pebbly in appearance, like crocodile skin.  Servius was briefly disappointed that the hidey-hole hadn’t stored something exciting or semi-precious, but he reached in and picked up the books, and placed them before him on the bed before replacing the stone.

With his lit wand he saw inscriptions on the front of the books and recognised them as diaries.  Nineteen seventy-six and nineteen seventy-seven.  He quickly thumbed through one and saw they were filled with writing, the paper had become stiff and crinkled from absorbing so much black ink.  A closer look revealed the words to be almost illegible, being both cursive and cramped.

Servius sighed.  His feet were becoming toasty and he shrugged himself under his goosedown quilt feeling tired now, sleep was stealing up.  Somewhere inside him was an unusual peace, as if a faceless anxiety had been quelled.  He put it down to knowing Täne was alright.  The front of his quilt up under his chin, he listlessly picked up the earlier of the two diaries and opened the cover.  Whoever had written them he figured was long gone.  Perhaps the stone cavity had been the kid’s hiding place back in the seventies, and he or she had forgotten about them.  He vaguely hoped the author had felt like he did, and the diaries were designed to store the person’s loneliness and confusion.  He searched the inside cover and back for any clue of an identity, but as happens so often with teenage diaries, it was devoid of name.  The only indicator he could find was some initials: H.B.P.

Without any true reason for thinking so, he decided the author had been a boy.  He admired the hide on the cover, the lack of ornamentation, the rather austere, utilitarian and focussed way the diary appeared to have been used.  It was not a gift that had amused for two weeks and been abandoned – every page had been filled.  There were no doodles, no aimless wittering, no half-hearted entries that nothing had happened.  The ink had been strictly black, and the handwriting was functional, not decorative.  HBP had purpose for these diaries… _needed_ them.

The moth fluttered above his head and landed on the top of the notebook, where it was now open before Servius as he sleepily began to read.  He smiled at the little creature, who stopped for a moment and seemed to wait.

“Hey, thanks,” said the boy, in a whisper.  “I needed something to read.  It’s not Beano but…it’ll do.”

The moth seemed satisfied and took to the air, disappearing into the darkness of the dorm.  Under the covers, Servius managed two pages of the diary by wandlight before falling into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

**A/N: acknowledgements to Rennaro _“A Difference in the Family”_ for h/c and inspiration re death of Snape’s parents, in this chapter and future chapters.**


	20. The Encounter

A settled week had passed. Autumn arrived and with it a profusion of seasonal clichés to hurl about wantonly in case anyone thought summer might linger. The Whomping Willow dumped its leaves, geese started flying about in V-formations, honking instructions and encouragement to each other. Mushrooms sprouted up in little clusters and rings, funny little spindly ones between the paving stones, giant, white puffball ones in the middle of the lawns like teaser footballs. There was a permanent haze in the air – when it wasn’t mists or fogs, it was the smoke of burning logfires, or Scottish gamekeepers smouldering hillside sections of woody heather to promote green, fresh tips for their grouse. A wanderer about the grounds might be eerily escorted by a far-off whistling wailing - which was not a distressed ghost but a red stag announcing his virile intentions - and even more oddly, by a depressed singing, which was the Mer-people gathering for the lean season. The kitchen elves stocked up abundantly in orchard fruit, pumpkins and potatoes, and took salad greens and strawberries off the menu.

Quidditch season had launched with much fanfare in the Daily Prophet, and an excitable Mayor of Hogsmeade was in touch with McGonagall to invite the students of Hogwarts to the opening of the village’s new state-of-the-art Quidditch pitch, which, between matches, would host the Puddlemere United team, now vice-Captained by Oliver Wood. McGonagall, Slughorn and of course, Rolanda Hooch chaperoned the seniors and prefects to the opening ceremony and inaugural match, and, due to the subsequent indignance and despair from the juniors at this, frankly, _flagrant_ injustice, the juniors were appeased by a second invitation – this one offered by Oliver Wood himself, no less - to a practice and coaching session with the Puddles a few days later.   When winning-team vice-Captain Wood had attended a special feast in the Great Hall in his honour and made the announcement up at McGonagall’s lectern, the tables erupted with excitement and there then ensued a food-fight and slanging match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the Gryffindors claiming Oliver as their own, and Ben McGregor, who was a first cousin of Oliver Wood, claiming Slytherin had “git th’ bloodlines.”

Two days later, the first and second years, (sans five students on detention as a result of the brawl), made their way to Hogsmeade’s Quidditch pitch after lunch for a free pass to sit in the stands and watch the Puddles practice, and then participate in group activities involving flying and ball-handling skills, coached by members of the team. Since Hogwarts was still outstanding for its consignment of school brooms thanks to the product recall earlier in the year, this opportunity was to be the first for a handful of lucky first-years to ride a broom.

Snape had been asked to supervise the juniors along with Hellmann, Hooch and Froggonmore, which he agreed to with great resignation since he found the only thing more boring than watching a Quidditch match was watching Quidditch practice, and arranged for Slughorn to cover his potions classes for the two hours. As he, Hellmann and Froggonmore organised the over-excited juniors into the school carriages bound for Hogsmeade, he thought, as a minor compensation, he might get to watch Servius’s first attempt on a broom. He’d always been average at it himself, and he was interested to discover whether the skills were simply learnt or something for which having a native talent would help.

The new Quidditch pitch was perfectly serviceable as far as Snape was concerned, with good angled terraces and weather protection for the crowds. The juniors were instructed to take seats in the front two rows closest to the pitch entrance, but it was impossible to contain their energy and enthusiasm and the students gathered in the walkway before the pitch wall, as close as they were allowed to all the action.

Snape sat with the other teachers a little further up, except Hooch, who stood importantly next to the access gate, hands on her hips, waving at the Puddles players as they occasionally zoomed by. Then she would turn to the group of students and point out various things that the player was doing, attempting some instruction.

Snape had brought coursework with him, and after fifteen minutes of watching desultory Quidditch players beat a bludger about, his interest waned and he lifted a pile of papers out of his bag and onto his knees, ready to start marking them.

“Mein Gute!” remarked Hellmann, who was sitting not far from him. “You’re doing marking? Why aren’t you watching the Quidditch?”

“Not interested,” answered Snape bluntly, focusing on the papers in front of him.

“You don’t like Quidditch?”

“It’s barely tolerable.”

“Not even the Vorld Cup?”

“Not even that.”

“What if England is vinning the Vorld Cup?’

“Then I would be interested from the point of view of a mass Imperious Curse being deployed.”

Hellmann laughed. “On this subject, did you know there is an improved Imperious Curse now? The rumours haff been confirmed with two cases – one in Croatia, a wizard found in the woods, and the other in Azkaban. That one, apparently the wizard haff been under the curse for over five years.”

Snape did not look up from his papers. “Yes. I had heard about it. Did the curse-breakers discover it?”

“Ja, ja. It’s harder to break than the old Imperious Curse. Mein theory is that they didn’t break the curse at all, but that the curse – the vord? – _relinquished_ its hold rather than is broken.”

Snape glanced up at this. “Why do you have that theory?”

“These two wizards – they are no longer useful, ja? The person who cast the curse does not use them so now – they are … _dispensable_ , the curse is more valuable than the wizard now. When the curse senses it is being broken, it can _let go_ , ja?   Protect the curse, protect the Sorcerer. But this Ministry does not want the public to know that it still can’t break the curse.”

Snape didn’t comment but ruminated on Hellmann’s theory.

“Ve haff been trying to do this for years in Durmstrang,” Hellmann added, his eyes on the players. “I think somebody out there has cracked it. Holla!”

Two Quidditch players crashed into each other, spilling the riders to the pitch. The students cheered and jumped up and down in excitement. The players stood stiffly and dusted sand off themselves while the brooms came to the ground before them.

“Can the Curse hold indefinitely?”

Hellmann shrugged. “Ich Weiss nicht. The curse-breakers realised the wizards were under the curse before they tried to break it. But it took many years. Must be very sophisticated, I am thinking.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Snape marking, Hellmann watching the Quidditch. Then Hellmann said: “The Austrian curse-breakers think they know where the Voynich Manuscript is coming from. Like we all know, it is a witch’s book, but not the malevolent witch. They actually think it comes from Ireland!”

“Gaelic?”

“Ja. The language is made up to keep the witchcraft secret from the Normans.”

Snape grunted, only marginally interested. He was more troubled by why Hellmann kept talking to him. He shuffled papers around, trying to imply he was busy. Did the man want to be friends?

“Schau – the first years are getting zeir brooms.”

Snape glanced up and saw that indeed, a Puddlemere support staffer had gone on to an end section of pitch and was bringing behind her approximately a dozen brooms under a controlled hover charm. Hooch was supervising a group of first-years and they were walking in a single file towards the learning space. A moment later, a Puddlemere player zoomed up and landed before the hovering brooms, bearing a big sportsman grin for the students who grouped up before him, with Hooch in the rear. The students were busy putting on crash helmets.

“How much longer here?” Snape asked Hellmann with a heavy sigh, looking back at his work.

“About…forty-five minuten. Can Servius ride the broom?’

“No. Never done it.”

“So! Then you will see him for the first time today?”

“It appears so.”

“Ah, I remember Amelie’s first time. She was luffin it. Look – he is on the broom…”

Snape raised his gaze and saw that Servius had clearly mastered lifting the broom to his hand for he now sat astride it, feet still on the ground, copying the lean-forward position the Puddlemere player was demonstrating. Hooch was going from student to student, making minor corrections with their posture.

“I haff a Cerberus Minor myself. She’s not bad, but over a year old now. I am thinking of the Major as a Christmas present to myself - ha ha.”

“I don’t own a broom.”

“Nein!” exclaimed Hellmann, staring at him over the top of his spectacles as if he were a great oddity. “You don’t miss the speed?”

“I don’t miss broomsticks,” replied Snape quietly, not looking at him, his eyes on Servius as the Puddlemere player showed the group how to kick-off.

One by one, the students headed into the air. Some had clearly ridden before, and their launch was smooth and controlled. The newbies were obvious with their wonky and haphazard progress, clutching the brooms so tightly and fearfully they were like blocks of stone precariously balanced in their saddles.

“There is Servius. He looks…alright...I think…” remarked Hellmann, his voice laden with doubt. Frowns marked the brows of both men watching Servius wobble alarmingly as he gained altitude.

“Lean back a bit…” muttered Snape, the advice an unconscious desire to help when it became apparent Servius was not in full command of his broom. It continued to get higher, and Hooch started to yell things up at him.

“Vere is he going?” asked Hellmann pointlessly as Servius cleared the top of the Stadium. Snape grasped his papers and then stood to continue watching, since the roof now obscured his view.

The Puddlemere player hopped on to his own broom at that point and took off after Servius. The boy and his broom had begun a lazy spiral into the sky as if caught in an up-draught, and the Puddlemere player pulled up alongside and attempted to coach.

“He has gone sehr high,” Hellmann pointed out in concerned tones and Snape clenched his fist, thinking the next ridiculous comment deserved a punch. The students and Hooch on the ground all watched and pointed, shielding their eyes from the sun.

Froggonmore loped up. “What are you all looking at?” she asked. “I’ve been napping.”

“It’s Servius – he is escaping perhaps!” said Hellmann, only a touch cheerfully, pointing to the speck that had become the boy.

Snape swore under his breath, one hand now holding his wand in case an _Arresto Momentum_ was going to be required.

But the speck became larger as it began its descent back towards the stadium. They were coming down. Gradually it took shape, and by the time they were level with the roof, Snape could see that Servius was no longer on his own broom, but riding behind the Puddlemere player, arms wrapped around his waist, the abandoned broom being held alongside by a charm.

When they came to land in the stadium to a cheering and clapping group of students, and now an assembly of Puddlemere United players as well, Snape watched Servius alight on wavering legs, take two steps forward, then bend over and throw up into the sand.

So Servius had inherited the Snape talent for riding.

* * *

 

Two days later was History of Magic class for the first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin group, and the first of the junior classes that Snape was to teach.   He had hoped and hoped that Binns would make a reappearance and had checked the history classroom almost on the hour the previous day in case the old ghost had begun haunting again, but it remained resolutely empty of anything living or dead…or in between.   And so with scarcely more than three lines in the way of a lesson plan, he headed for classroom 4F, on first floor, not far from Charity’s old quarters.

The twenty or so students were waiting for him outside when he showed up, larking about. He opened the door from a distance as he approached and barked: “Go in. Go in. Shush!”

As the students jostled about for seats, Snape went to Binns’s desk and put down his own belongings. Before he’d even turned to face them, someone bawled: “My Hog Doss says Professor Binns teaches this class, not you!”

He glared towards the desks where the students were now seated. He noticed Servius and Wait for William seated next to each other amongst the other Slytherins, but it hadn’t been either of them, he didn’t know the voice. But given the current snickering amongst the Gryffindors he presumed the source.

“Since we know you can apparently read,” he said icily to the boy in question, “ – or is it in fact that your Dossier can now speak, given how you described your fountain of knowledge – you can be first to read from Chapter One. Your name?”

“Prott, sir,” said the Gryffindor sulkily. A likely looking lad with shaved hair except for a lanky fringe and a heavy-set brow.

Snape consulted his student list. “Topper Prott?”

“Yes sir.”

Snape’s eyebrow arched slightly at the name. He also now remembered the boy had been accomplished on the broom and had given Servius quite the ribbing.

“Chapter One, everyone – as in, open to! Your texts: _History of Magic,_ by Bathilda Bagshot, renowned historian. She has, appropriately, started at the beginning, as shall we. Page seven…quickly. Prott – we await your limpid tones…”

Prott began to read, leadenly. “’The history of magic begins as do all histories, with an event in the past long before humans were around to record it. Magic began before people, before animals, before any living things. It began when the earth was still young and irritable, when atmospheres were being formed, when lands were being created and when the seas held the keys to all existence.’”

He was torturing it. Snape said, “Thank you. You there…no you, take it up please.”

Another Gryffindor began to read. “’We don’t know exactly how long ago, but somewhere between three and four billion years ago, a star crashed into the earth -,’”

“A star, sir?” interrupted a Slytherin: Iona MacGhee, Irish. “How could a star crash into earth? Stars are bigger than earth, sir, and made of plasma and gas.”

Snape cleared his throat. “Correct as far as we know. Perhaps she meant a meteorite. Carry on.”

“’Historians have a theory that the star hit the earth around the place we know today as the Mediter…Medituh –,’”

“Mediterranean,” said Snape.

“’There are abounding theories that the centre of the star grew cold and hard and lodged deep beneath the earth in this region. It is known as the Origin Stone.’”

“Note that please. Origin Stone.”

Farihah Nandwani, who was reading, had an endurable reading voice and was permitted to continue. “’The dying star, now buried in a formative earth, released its matter into the seas around it. The seas grew hot, and, owing to the crucible of volatile forces throughout, life in its most elemental form was born.’”

“This is not so different from Muggle theory,” said Snape. “Take over reading, please Murphy.”

Flavius Murphy in Gryffindor had to take the book from his neighbor since he didn’t have a copy. “’Life evolved over millions of years, and magic from the star was fun..da..men..tal to the building matter of life itself. In all its mi…mirad -,’”

“Myriad.”

“’…myriad of forms, magic was present and was integral to the proto-type of all life we know today.’” Murphy looked up hopeful that this was enough.

“Carry on.”

“’As the earth took the shape we now recognize, and the continents materialized, the region we call the Mediterranean continued to show signs of concentrated magic. From here sprung the place historically known as the Garden of Eden. It was a place -,’”

“Sir! Sir – in my old school, the Garden of Eden is in Religious Studies!” Muggle-born Abigail Lawson, with her hand up.

“Thank you Ms Lawson. This is history, not Religious Studies.”

“But…but that’s not history, sir. That’s…religion.”

“They sometimes overlap. Murphy - carry on.”

Murphy sighed, perhaps hoping that had been his moment of release. “’This was a place of great beauty, contentment and needless to say, magic.’”

“What kind of magical beings might have been present in the Garden of Eden? Hands, please!”

“Unicorns, sir!”

“Correct; yes?”

“Abominable snowmen?”

“Uh, possibly. Yes?”

“Centaurs!” Abigail again, having joyously abandoned her misgivings.

“Thank you. Small – pick up please. Nice, clear voice.”

Slytherin Samuel Small – in name and physique - began to read. “’Included of course, amongst the brilliance of life, was man -,’”

“Men and women, sir.”

“Yes, men and women. This is “man” used in its collective noun form, as in, mankind. Continue.”

“’Man was as magical as his animal and plant brethren, the separation occurred when he grew a fierce and independent intelligence, and with that, a curiosity. Man travelled far and wide across the earth, sometimes after the animals that he ate, and sometimes to find new places to settle. Very early on in the history of man, we know from ancient records, an orphan boy called Alexon in the country now known as Greece, fell into a crevasse in a mountain. This was a region described as very seismically unstable and prone to frequent earthquakes. In this crevasse, it is believed he discovered the Origin Stone, which enabled him to survive. Being of great intelligence, Alexon understood innately that he possessed something of unimaginable power, but kept it hidden while he grew and studied under great Mages until he had the wisdom to use the Stone for a greater good. One of the Mages learnt he had the Stone and stole it. The Mage was immediately transformed into Typhon, a mean and spiteful demi-god, and, fearful that the boy might try and steal the Origin Stone back again, decided to kill him. But the Mage had raised the boy like his own son, and at the moment he was to strike him down permanently, he faltered and became enraged at his own weakness that we know to be love.

“’Love became the only means of defeating powerful dark magic. But the Mage could not let Alexon know that and risk losing the Origin Stone. So he cast a curse on the boy which removed him of all magical ability: his eyes could no longer see magic and he was forced to resolve all his problems and struggles using only his rational intelligence.

“’He was banished from his homeland by Typhon and set off into the world as the first Muggle. From him, all Muggles can be traced back – humans who had once been magical but had this power robbed from them.

“’As Alexon ultimately bore children from a witch, the curse was tested a great deal. For centuries the Muggles not only struggled with their own inexplicable encounters with the magical world, but also their own genes which wanted to thrive. Some Muggles to this day carry the gene from the mother witch, and other Muggles have inherited two dormant genes.

“’With each successive generation of Muggles, their own brain completed the work of the curse, and the more science could be used to explain magical phenomena, and technology triumph over hardship and shortcomings, the more removed from their own magical origins the Muggles became.

“’This of course delighted the immortal Typhon, but he educated his followers that Muggles must never be trusted, must be scorned and must be kept apart. The great magical civilisations such as Egypt, Rome, Greece, Inca, Mayan and Chinese rose and fell until about the time the Muggles call the Middle Ages and the Age of Enlightenment, during which the Muggles decided they wanted to dominate the earth, trust in science and that magical beings were an abomination. We will be studying these periods in history through this book.’”

“Excellent reading, thank you Samuel,” said Snape, with a quick glance at the clock on the wall. “Now – the Origin Stone is one of a Triad of Magical Stones in mythology and legend. Who can name the other two?”

“Runestones?” shouted Ulfat Milani.

“No…no..not runestones although it could be argued they have magical properties. Yes, Edwin?”

“The Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Good, that’s the second. Who else?”

“What’s a Triad, sir?”

“A group of three. I’m looking for the name of the third stone.”

“Gobstones, sir!” yelled Ackley Shrew.

Snape turned to him scornfully. “It is bad enough that you had the completely wrong answer, Shrew, without shouting it. How on earth could gobstones be a third in a triad? Stop guessing.”

Ackley Shrew slumped in his seat.

There was a length of silence while the students pondered the question or stared out of the window waiting for the class to end.

“Have you not heard of the Deathly Hallows?” prompted Snape.

“Oh!” exclaimed Iona MacGhee, her penny dropping almost audibly. “The Resurrection Stone!”

“Yes, well done, got there in the end. The Origin Stone, the Philosopher’s Stone and the Resurrection Stone – the Stone Triad as they’re known collectively, although it is not believed that there are any connections between the stones.”

“Sir,” said Amelie Hellmann from her lone seat at the back of the class. “Do any of these stones actually exist? Or any of this history? This class is just stories.”

“A fair observation, Miss Hellmann. Would anyone care to answer her?”

“Me mam says they’re real!” said Winona Joseph, incensed enough to turn in her seat to direct this at Amelie.

“And what evidence is there?” Amelie responded. “Has anybody seen the stones?”

Snape couldn’t truthfully say that he had, not even The Philosophers Stone, but he hadn’t thought to doubt Dumbledore. And though the supposed Elder Wand had cost him dearly and he’d certainly had his run-ins with Potter’s invisibility cloak, he didn’t think that hand on his heart he’d encountered the Resurrection Stone. He didn’t believe it was possible, Dumbledore had always insisted not even magic could bring back the dead. He was also certain that if the Resurrection Stone existed, Voldemort would have been after it. As for the Origin Stone, he was particularly certain that _that_ was merely legend.

He allowed the class to sit in silence for two minutes so that Amelie got her answer, then he said to her, “If treasures such as those were common and accessible, they wouldn’t have garnered the myth and mystery they have, would they Miss Hellmann? And until their existence is indisputably proved, perhaps they will remain merely fables. But that doesn’t mean these stories don’t have a place in history. Since nobody was there to prove otherwise, all history is theory until evidence can confirm or deny it.”

He hadn’t expected it, but a casual glance about the room was caught by Servius, who held it for a moment, the trace of a smile on his lips. Something he’d said clearly earned his approval.

The bell for the end of class rang out, and Snape said loudly over the ruckus of decamping students: “Wait – homework! I don’t want Professor Binns to think I haven’t been teaching you anything. Read the remainder of Chapter One and write one roll of parchment on why Ancient Greece was considered a pilgrimage for generations of wizards. I will send the assignment to your Dossiers. Stop scraping that chair, Prott!”

 

* * *

At lunch the same day, Snape and then Slughorn were visited in turn by Filch, who imparted with solemnity that the repair work on the Slytherin Common Room had been completed. They, along with McGonagall, were invited to see the end results and agree on the denouement of the whole business – preferably involving payment and the Slytherins resuming residence.

With only minutes before lunch was due to conclude and lessons resume, Snape, Slughorn and McGonagall made quick steps to the dungeon corridor where they were hailed by Fetherington, who was standing outside the front of the Slytherin Common Room looking pleased with himself.

“We’ve finished!” he declared. “The windows are done.” He was joined by Jacob and a handful of other builders who silently stood behind him holding tool bags.

“Merlin’s Beard!” stated Slughorn happily. “Does that mean the Slytherins can return?”

“Ayuh, I don’t see why not. Want to have a look?”

“Well naturally!” said Slughorn, and he, Snape and McGonagall followed Fetherington into the room. There were the submerged lancet windows restored to all their former glory, beyond, the drifting detritus of the lake could be seen. All the building accoutrements and scaffolding had been removed and tidied away and the white drop sheets that had been laid about were gone; so too were the blinding spotlights that had been directed on the tracery, and which had cast the dungeon room in such an unnatural and perverse glare that being in it had felt like being interrupted in the middle of something illicit. Now, the comforting shadows and dim corners were back, the closeness had returned, and – being Slytherin – so too the secrets.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” said Slughorn, and though Snape didn’t feel the need to elaborate, he nodded.

McGonagall was nodding, but also frowning. She maintained a steady focus on the windows, all the greenish, serpentine décor a little antipathetic for her Gryffindor sensibilities. “The windows are safe?” she inquired, rather needlessly, but it would have been negligent of her not to ask. “The walls are sound? Can I remove the _Barricadus_?”

“Certainly, Mrs McGonagall – she’s safe as houses,” replied Fetherington. Then added less confidently: “Well, for a while anyway. ‘Less there’s a tidal wave or summat. I must make myself totally clear that it’s still bits of stone stuck together at the end of the day and it’s not meant to be underwater.”

McGonagall smiled serenely and with a silent sweep of her wand, the shimmery _Barricadus_ disappeared. “Gentlemen,” she murmured. “You can bring your serpents home.”

That evening, while the students were in their dorms and the staff were occupied, Snape returned to the Common Room to inspect it in private. Alone in the room, he approached the windows to examine the repair work closely, to see for himself how cracks had been sealed and joints secured, to find reassurance in the new strength and reinforcements. The water of the lake was black at night, and as he held a lantern up close to the stone, his reflection was mirrored in the glass, mimicking his movements in a manner he found slightly unnerving. The black of his coat and robe merging into the pitch of the lake water had sometimes the effect of disembodying his head, and the lantern appeared to carry itself. He had paused to consider this eerie aspect when suddenly a monstrous silvery eye loomed out of the darkness on the other side of the glass right before him, and he cried out and stumbled backwards, heart hammering, his hand scrambling for his wand. But the huge eye had swerved away again, disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived, the only clue as to its terrifying owner being a trailing tentacle lined with suckers.

Snape remained where he was until his heart had stopped thundering and he could breathe normally, then he straightened and dusted imaginary specks off the front of his robes, as though this would restore his dignity in front of any gargoyles or portraits. He had better warn Servius about those damned things, he thought. Bloody looming out of the dark like that – half the Muggleborns would have nightmares for weeks.

He left the Common Room and returned to his office, whereupon his first task was to check his enchanted parchment for a reply. He did this first whenever he entered the room. He had now checked it so often to no avail that the small act had the first signs of becoming perfunctory: enter room, check parchment, return to drawer and shut. Endure wave of disappointment. Resume life.

The disappointment had morphed slightly over the days from being dashed anticipation to a dwindling of hope that Charity was there and could be reached. He began to think he’d been fanciful all along, mistaken in what he’d seen and assumed, and that he’d over-indulged those re-awakened passions that no longer had an outlet. He held no special hope, therefore, when he opened his hidden drawer this time and withdrew the parchment, his expression impassive as he unrolled it.

 _Archive_ was the word written on it. Alone, exclusive, simply: _Archive_.

He stared; he flipped the parchment over, but nothing. Then without taking his eyes off it, he sat down in his desk chair and ran a hand over his face, mind racing. A surge of some rare emotion seemed to push up inside him, and he uttered a small, choked exclamation, unable to physically contain the joy.  It was she. And the unmistakable inference of the word was that she could be found in the archive.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what otherworldly forces were at play and at that moment, he was less concerned by how than by what and _when_. This word had materialised in the past twenty-four hours or so – when dealing with an entity in a completely unfamiliar realm, did one presume to work on an earthly time? Had she intended the word as an instruction with immediate application? Was she – would she – appear like the Hogwarts ghosts? Could she be fetched?

It mattered not: he couldn’t go to the archive now; it was full of pre-bed students and he had absolutely no intention of divulging his moves or his purpose to anyone, not the ghosts, not even Servius. If he were going mad with grief, he would discover it alone, in an empty archive, and suffer it equally so. For now, he would just have to bide his time and privately nurture this little, secret glow in his heart.

 

* * *

And so it was with great enthusiasm early on Saturday that he gave swift instruction to the House Elves to move all the belongings of the Slytherins from the temporary conversion back to the old dorms, and to replicate the bed and storage arrangements as much as possible.

The Slytherins were variously at breakfast, home or weekend clubs, and Slughorn had not yet appeared from Hogsmeade, so Snape was more than happy to oversee the relocation by standing squarely in the middle of the converted Common Room and commandeer the elves and elvish magic as bedding, trunks, clothes, suitcases and a great quantity of personal belongings were carted out of the door. In the few moments he had alone, he would look about him, but all he saw was the fabricated Slytherin Common Room, nothing noteworthy, nothing different. Once he said Charity’s name aloud and felt foolish, but at the same time his heart leapt with the possibility and the curiously simple pleasure of feeling her name enunciated on his tongue.

Perhaps an hour later, as the elves began their final sweep of the dorms and Snape was anticipating time alone in the room, the heavy door was pushed open and Servius stumbled in. He was wearing his running clothes and judging by his pink cheeks and the way he rubbed his nose on his sleeve, it was another brisk morning outside. Behind him was the ever-present Wait for William.

“What’s going on?” Servius asked immediately upon seeing Snape. “Are you moving stuff out already?”

The Slytherins had been informed of the relocation at dinner the previous evening. Evidently his son had been distracted during the details.

“Yes. And I asked for students to remain clear while it was happening. What are you doing here?”

“I need to get something.”

“What? All your belongings will have been moved already.”

“They…the thing I need to get…it isn’t with my other stuff.”

An elf carrying a tall, wicker laundry basket huffed as she tried to navigate her way around Servius and William to get to the door.

“Leave it, Servius, you’re in the way there -,”

“It’ll only take a sec; I know where it is.” And without awaiting permission, Servius ducked away through the door into the dorms. Snape called after him crossly and was about to start barking orders when he had a sudden thought that Charity might somehow be observing. Reflecting on the exchange, he realised there hadn’t been any greeting, not even a smile let alone the kind of affection that might normally be shown at seeing your own child for the first time that day. He pressed his lips together and waited impatiently.

William remained standing by the door, occasionally glancing at Snape with wide eyes and fidgeting a little. After a moment, he said, “Uh, I…uh, I laid my bet that you would beat Professor Hellmann in a duel.”

Snape scowled at William. “I see.”

William cuffed his shoe for a moment, then said, “I really liked the History class the other day.”

“Mmhm.”

“Do you think I might get an extension for the homework, sir? It’s just that -,”

“No.”

“Okay.” Contrite silence. Then: “So…do you think the Headmistress might let us have a football club?”

Snape merely glared at him.

At that moment Servius emerged. Whatever he’d gone to retrieve fitted beneath his sweater as there was a small bulge there where he carried it. Snape looked stern, wondering what it could be that it was so secret he had to conceal it.

“Got them,” said Servius. “Okay, I’m good, thanks sir.” And then in mere moments, he and William had escaped through the door and disappeared. For half a second Snape wondered if the loot had been naughty magazines – he’d confiscated plenty in his time – but then remembered Servius was only eleven and surely, _surely_ that was still too young to be interested in that? Still, if his son had normal red-blooded hormones coursing through him, he’d be more relieved than angry.

It was exactly the sort of thing mothers and fathers talked about. He desperately wanted to know if Charity was there. He stalked through the dorms and bathrooms and checked for elves. Empty. “Anyone here?” he called out in a business-like tone, the irony not lost on him, but no one answered. This time, he was relieved.

He made his way back to the Common Room, the place and position he remembered the massive, mahogany table to reside when it had been the archive, and stood there, still, listening to the silence.

He imagined dust settling. It was so quiet he could hear his own heart, his own breathing, almost feel the stone walls around him exhale. His nerves prickled with apprehension. Then he closed his eyes.

Charity. The memories of her flooded into his mind, and while he could pick out her features, see her face, it wasn’t what his memory wanted to give him. It wasn’t a picture of her – it was the presence of her that had captured him, the sense of being completed, the fit of her jigsaw piece into his, the laughing, the intimacy, feeling understood, feeling connected. That’s what he had loved about her.   That she had been wrapped up in something pretty was simply a bonus, after a while he hadn’t really seen her features anymore – something, he realised, that had never happened with Lily, he’d always been struck anew by her looks – but with Charity he’d dived to such greater depth that the drug he craved from her surpassed a physical attraction – it was her companionship that he missed, longed for…and remembered now.

“Charity…? Are you here?” he murmured.

A warmth enveloped him; it was pleasant, as if he were wrapped in a blanket that had been toasting by the fire. His breath held when he realised that this sensation was not accidental, not environmental, but a communication – she was expressing her presence in a way that would not frighten him.

But while the warmth lingered, his feelings began to change. Where they had been hopeful and longing, they became increasingly dispirited, with such rapidity and so detached from any thoughts of his own, he knew that this temperament was not his, but that he was channelling hers. Within a few minutes he experienced a terrible, awful sadness, his chest felt heavy with aching grief but…she was perturbed as well, confused, as if blinded by her own demoralisation.

The weight on him made it hard for him to breathe; his chest began to rise and fall, and his heart started to beat ponderously. “Charity…you are sad…I understand…” And even though he had no reason, a tear slipped down his cheek, a physical mechanism that accompanied the misery. Was she crying or was that him? “Please don’t be sad…” he said, feeling utterly helpless, wanting this dreadful feeling to leave him but wanting to burden it as well. “I – I don’t know what to do.”

The feeling dissipated, as if draining away. “Don’t go – don’t go!” he said to the room, glancing about. “Show yourself…let me see you…”

There was nothing to see, however, at least no manifestation of her that his eyes would acknowledge.

And then he felt the most peculiar thing: the sensation of invisible fingers touching his arm, a slight, gentle pressure. Then the invisible fingers touched his cheek – they were slightly cool at the touch, exactly as if she’d laid the tips of her fingers there, his skin could define the pads of individual fingertips. It was so real-feeling he involuntarily raised his own hand to try and grasp it, but he closed around air.

The ghostly fingers moved to his brow and then gently lowered the lids of his eyes to close them and held for a moment. He waited, heart pounding now, eyes shut. The mild, tender way she touched seemed to want to comfort him and reassure him, but he couldn’t help a tendril of fear – the whole encounter was so strange and he felt vulnerable.

And then - unmistakable, as if she were right there - her lips on his. Warm, soft and sweet: a single, light kiss – so unexpected, so brief he had no time to respond. Her lips pressed on his and were gone. She had closed his eyes so that only his skin, his lips, would experience her the way they had when she was alive. She shut his eyes to hide the truth, but his touch memory knew no different.

He wanted to see her. His undisciplined lids flew open and searched the space before him where she should have been; his hands felt the air, trying to touch her embodiment. Wild frustration seized him. “Charity! I know you’re there! _Show yourself!_ ”

But there was nothing. Had an observer been able to watch the scene, watched Snape try to grasp the air, shout into an empty room, they would have questioned his sanity. But Snape didn’t. Twelve years had passed since he’d last kissed Charity, outside Dumbledore’s cottage in the frost and ice, and then her lips had tasted salty from the tears. But to him, with those memories just returned to him, so fresh and perfectly preserved in the witch’s bottle all that time, it felt like it had been merely weeks since he’d known the sensation of her mouth on his. He knew how it felt to be kissed by Charity. It wasn’t madness that made him try to touch her, in whatever form she now manifested. It was love and heartbreak.

For ten more minutes he stood in the empty Common Room, but somehow he knew she wouldn’t return. He didn’t speak again. Head down, he gathered his robe about him and left the room.

 

* * *

For the remainder of the day he was like a ghost himself, caught in limbo, unable to go back to the man he’d been now he had felt her, sensed her and experienced her sorrow. But there was no way forward either – he did not know what to do to change it, to help her or to normalise this situation.

He took to his office and locked the door, then in his chair sat brooding over her picture, liberating the repository of memories in his head, closing his eyes to view them better, wallowing. And another part of his brain, almost in his subconscious, started to run a line of enquiry into everything he knew about ghosts. There were different types, that much was self-evident: she was warm, not cold; invisible; she could touch him, but not the reverse. But her reason for haunting seemed consistent with what he knew about all demised beings unable to rest: she wasn’t at peace. The confusion, the pain, the desolation he’d experienced – a consequence of her violent and fearful murder, her soul hadn’t submitted…somehow, somehow to appease it, her sadness must be lifted.

And then she would be gone. She was always going. Her constant departures had marked their entire relationship – it almost raised a smile. To help her would be to free her…and then lose her again.

But the alternative could not be countenanced. She could not be left to suffer, to risk abhumanity if deserted to her own unremitting woe.

_But how? How could he give her peace? What did he have to do?_

 

* * *

On Sunday afternoon, Snape made his way to the Head’s office against a backdrop of choir practice emanating from the Great Hall. The castle was calm – students weekending at home weren’t due back until dinner, and the remainder were busy with free time. Being an unseasonably warm end of September, the outdoors still enticed the majority of students, the senior years were practicing for Quidditch try-outs which commenced in a week, and Servius’s unapproved football club were gathered at the largest area of flat land they could find, which was down by the lake, and so meant that with predictable frequency the football would be kicked out into the water and retrieved with much shouting of levitation and _Accio_ spells before it floated out of reach.

When Snape entered the office, averting his eyes from his portrait which remained hanging, McGonagall had been in deep conversation with Dumbledore, but they stopped abruptly at his arrival.

“Ma’am?” he said. “You wanted to see me?” He had stopped guessing now at the possible reasons for a summoning. As Deputy, he had a list of tasks as long as Filch’s face, and McGonagall wanted random updates all the time. But he had an idea of the purpose for this meeting.

“Thank you for coming Severus. I wanted to brief you on things before I leave.”

Ah yes, as he’d assumed. McGonagall was leaving for Board of Governors meetings in London on Monday and he was to act as Head.

“Here’s everything I’ve been progressing in various stages -,”

On The Desk before her was an orbuculum she’d created, containing a series of extractions from her memory as a kind of visual diary of her various movements, meetings and tasks. When she ran her hand past the orb, the scene would change and run anew. In the scene currently playing, she was at a table with Agatha Froggonmore and they were discussing Ravenclaw related issues.

“Dumbledore knows everything as well,” she advised. To the portrait she said: “You’d be happy to visit a painting at the Ministry if necessary, isn’t that right Albus?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Everard’s. Just say the word.”

“So you’re not abandoned.”

“That impression never crossed my mind, Ma’am.”

“You’ve been looking a bit gloomy.”

Snape raised a brow. “While of course your absence will be keenly felt, that was not the reason for my…mood.”

She studied him closely for a moment and instinctively he shut everything down, hands clasping behind his back.

“Severus,” she said softly, obviously not intending Dumbledore to hear. “If you and I are to work together with the same trust you and Albus had, I need you to talk to me more. I can see you just occluded me. I’m no Legilimens, I’m an old friend. We may have had our differences, but…I _need_ you on side with me.”

“Ma’am, there is no question -,”

“I know,” she looked away, she had expected his response. “I know.” She lifted a delicate, china cup painted with rosebuds and sipped her tea. “The Slytherin’s are home?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Did Hagrid manage to capture all the Billywigs? Did he check the dorms as well?”

“We think so Ma’am. I expect we’ll discover tonight if any are left.”

“I know the Slytherins think it’s Gryffindors that released them, but until there’s proof they should curb their comments. I don’t want any retribution or revenge.”

Dumbledore chuckled but Snape didn’t commit to anything. Hellmann had been adamant he’d seen scarlet-lined hoods sneaking down the dungeon stairs. How they’d discovered entry into the Common Room was anyone’s guess, but passwords were duly changed.

“No sign of Professor Binns?”

“I’m afraid not. Shall I enquire about a substitute?”

“Perhaps start recruiting as well. It’s highly irregular, isn’t it Albus? For a ghost just to disappear?”

“In my experience that only happens when they pass over,” concurred Dumbledore. “Mind you, we never did find out what caused him to haunt.”

“It would have been nice to say goodbye,” said McGonagall absently.

“Have you known that to happen?” asked Snape, surprising himself with this question. “Have you known ghosts that have…passed over?”

“One or two,” said Dumbledore. “It’s nice when it happens.”

“I as well,” said McGonagall, and she smiled a rare smile and her eyes became distant. “Only one.” Dumbledore seemed to know to whom she referred, and he smiled as well, but did not comment.

Snape nodded. “I see. Well, I shall try to arrange something while you’re away.”

“Are you bringing up young Servius to see me?” asked Dumbledore suddenly. “I’ve yet to make his acquaintance.”

“I can do so. In fact, I was hoping to make use of the Pensieve if there is no objection? I have mentioned memories I have of…his mother.”

“Good idea,” said Dumbledore. “Uncanny similarity to Harry isn’t it? You carrying around these memories of mothers in your head,” (apparently, McGonagall had updated Dumbledore on Snape’s recent reinstallation of his memory).

Snape felt a flush of heat up the back of his neck. He had learned from various post-war accounts that Potter had viewed his memories in the Hogwarts Pensieve but still wasn’t entirely sure what Potter had witnessed. He felt vaguely tomb-raided, but could stake no further claim, he had offered them freely. His most private memories were now Potter’s – an unplanned gifting of Lily to her son he had nurtured for nearly two decades; the way Snape had looked at Lily, so intently, so absorbingly, it must have felt to Potter as though he was standing beside her, every detail etched fine, every hair on her head had been recorded in Snape’s mind. Treasure indeed.

“Did you know, Albus, that Severus gave Servius detention?”

Dumbledore chortled. “Merlin’s beard, Severus, I think you must secretly enjoy them.”

“I make a point of not treating him any differently -,”

“Well if he takes after you I imagine he’ll spend more time in detention than even Potter.”

As Head of House, Slughorn had ended up enduring so many hours of detention with Snape during the worst of the Marauder years that they’d agreed to convene in the library so that Slughorn could get work done and Snape could research. Then Snape had gotten better at keeping his misdemeanours secret.

“From what I can tell of Servius, he’ll learn faster than I.”

“Ho ho! High praise indeed. I look forward to meeting him.”

McGonagall clinked down her cup. “Look after them all, won’t you Severus, while I’m gone.”

“It’s only a week, Ma’am -?”

“I hope so,” she said quietly, and waved a hand over the orbuculum. It turned misty and dark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - My apologies if I am incorrect in my interpretation of canon that Snape is unaware of the Resurrection Stone. In all my research, I could not find any firm evidence that he knew of it. He was obviously aware of the cursed Gaunt ring and I think also knew that it was a Horcrux, but was he ever informed that it was in fact the Resurrection Stone? If anyone can definitively answer this, please leave a comment so all readers can see it, and if I am wrong - thank you! I will correct the story.


	21. The Unanswerables

Of the many traditions that marked way-points in the teaching year at Hogwarts, few are met with as much enthusiasm by the students as those two that arise in October: the commencement of try-outs for House Quidditch teams (Senior and Junior), and the formation of the All Hallows Week Committee, who organise events for both Halloween itself at the end of October, and Oidhche Draoidh on 5th November, and if they were particularly adroit, classroom related activities during the intervening days.

At breakfast on his first morning as acting Head, Snape made these announcements to the students while they clattered their spoons about in steaming bowls of porridge as if practicing some ancient voodoo drumming, and directed any enquiries about Quidditch to Hooch, and the second to Oosthuizen.  Energised chatter immediately followed, and returning to his seat, he watched the student body looking bright and engaged with happy distractions.  Stark contrast to his previous turn as Headmaster, when they would sit glum and afraid at their tables, the empty seats ever-more numerous, the whispering and undertones only emphasising the bleak atmosphere.

Post owls arrived.  The owl carrying mail for McGonagall had to be persuaded by Hagrid to release its consignment for Snape, who carefully set aside anything personal or private for her eyes only. And when he casually glanced up as he thumbed-open seals, he noticed that Täne had flown in and dropped a letter for Servius, whose excitable appreciation at this novelty proved a nuisance to his pureblood tablemates.  Snape watched discreetly as Servius opened and read his letter, which appeared to be good news, and Snape presumed that his friend and team in Trowbridge had performed well in their football.  The lateness of the reply also informed him that Täne had visited Master Mathieson several nights in a row until a return letter was forthcoming.  He was a good owl.

He was distracted by movement behind him.  He turned to find Sinistra had sat down in the empty chair next to his.  “Headmaster,” she said, but her grin was wide and ironic.  “Since you’re in charge, is now a good time to ask for my planetarium?”

“You have picked a good time,” he said, the corners of his mouth upturned.  “But I fear not for a planetarium. What else does your heart desire?”

In reply, her look became meaningful, brow arched, a flirty smile holding steady.  Then she said, “You never came to see me again about that letter from Charity.”

His light-hearted expression immediately closed over, and he looked away.  “I…I’m sorry I forgot.  Another time, I’m sorry.” He pushed his chair back abruptly and stood, forgetting that this signalled the end of breakfast.  Students still eating their toast gazed up at him, bewildered.

“Carry on…carry on…” he muttered with a raised hand, then hurriedly left the table and exited the Hall, his departure watched by an exasperated Sinistra.

 

* * *

 

Servius ran.  It was lucky he had his trainers on.  During the move to the Slytherin Common Room, the elves had put his school shoes away somewhere as yet undiscovered, so after showers and dressing for breakfast that morning, he simply put his trainers on.  He’d gotten some grief from the Prefects for it, however now – making the dash from the owlery to the greenhouses after realising he was going to be late for Herbology again – he was glad of the extra sprinting speed.

It wasn’t enough.  Once again the class had already started when Servius launched through the greenhouse number 2 door.  And once again, Professor Longbottom decided this was an excellent opportunity to roast him in front of everyone.  He had been potting a plant at the front trestle table, and when Servius entered with a garble of apology, he stopped his instruction to stick his trowel into the dirt and rubbed his gloved hands down his apron.  “Papus be praised, Master Snape, you really need to find a way to get around quicker.  I can see you’re _trying_ based on those fine, white Muggle shoes you’re wearing, but evidently, they’re Not. Fast. Enough.  Have you tried a broomstick?”

Uproarious laughter from the Gryffindors.  Longbottom glanced at them, a wide grin on his face, and then back at Servius, whose face was flaming.  Of course his first flying attempt had been the laugh-of-the-week, with charmed paper aeroplanes spiralling upwards to the ceiling in every class he’d been in.  Wait for William had shot them down with his wand when teachers weren’t looking, but the damage was done by then. 

“Five points off Slytherin for your disrespect to my class, Snape,” snapped Longbottom, smile gone now.  “That’s three times you’ve been late.  Just because Daddy is Headmaster doesn’t entitle you to any special privileges with me.  Get to your table.”

More smirks and titters from the Gryffindors while his fellow Slytherins glared at him murderously.  Whether it was the deducted points or the shame he brought on the House, Servius wasn’t sure – probably both.  He took his place next to a mortified William feeling like his head might explode.

That morning’s lesson involved re-potting a Witherwort plant in order to give it more growing room, but also for the purposes of harvesting the small, slightly furry tubers that grew on the plant’s roots.  While William prepared the correct ingredients for the potting mix, Servius gingerly attempted to pull free the plant from its pot.  If stressed, the plant shed its leaves, and combined with being uprooted, it would be killed.   It was the last thing Servius wanted given Longbottom’s mood.

“I’ll swap with you,” he muttered to William.  “Let me make the potting mix.  I can’t afford to fuck this up.”

“No way,” hissed back William.  “I’ll kill it for sure.”

“If I kill this plant, Lamebottom will go apeshit about it in front of the Gryffindors and everything.  You know he will, Will.”

“You shoulda got here on time,” grumbled William.  “You didn’t need to take your owl back.”

“Come on, do me a solid – this guy’s totally riding me.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then with a huge sigh William moved to swap places with Servius.  They continued with their task busily while Longbottom walked past their table, then when he had moved off again, Servius muttered to a pale, anxious-looking William, “You know those diaries I was telling you about?  Well last night I was reading this bit about this big fight between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors with all this crazy hexing and jinxing going on.  Man, sounded like so much more fun when they were here.”

“Shh,” responded William, placing cautious fingers around the stem of the frail plant which trembled – or it could have been William himself.

“This kid who wrote the diary, right – him and his buddy Slytherins hid in some part of the castle in an ambush, and when this gang of Gryffindors showed up, they jumped up and got every single one of them!  And you know what the hex was - ?!”

“Quiet!” shouted Longbottom from the other end of the greenhouse.  “Concentrate on your task!”

“Shut _up_ , Sev!” whispered William through clenched teeth, and with tiny inching pulls, the plant was jerked free of the soil.  Both boys stared at it for a moment, and then William glanced at Servius with amazed glee.  “I did it!”

And then, promptly, the plant collapsed, so thoroughly the stems wilted all over William’s hand and the small tubers dropped off onto the table.  William’s eyes were shocked and huge and his mouth dropped open.

“Oh _shit_ ,” uttered Servius, causing the other Slytherins at his table to look over.  As soon as Iona MacGhee and Samuel Small clocked eyes on the dead plant, they looked up with terror at Servius.  “Longbottom is going to _slay_ you!”

Iona checked that Longbottom was out of sight, then with brisk, calculated movements she grabbed the dead plant out of William’s hand and shoved it under the table into the off-cuts tray.  Then she took a spare plant and with precision, dusted the soil away from the roots before leveraging the plant free, which she handed to William with great care.  “Plant it.  Quickly,” she ordered, returning to her own task with Samuel.

“Why’d you do that?” asked Samuel.

“I don’t want any more points off Slytherin,” she retorted.  “It’s just a stupid plant.”

Servius and William stared at Iona.  “Make up for it in Potions,” she said with a small smile.

They didn’t need to be told twice: carefully they harvested the tubers and re-potted it. 

“You should be finishing up by now,” called Longbottom, strolling back up the aisle towards the front of the greenhouse.  “Leave your re-potted Witherwort and the tubers you’ve harvested on the table at your stations – I will be marking them later.  Stay where you are please – I have your assignments from last week to hand back.”

From a satchel he’d positioned by the door, he withdrew a sheaf of parchment papers and then moved about the greenhouse handing the marked assignments back to each student.  When he got to Servius, he said, “Deplorable effort.  I think you may have been working on an entirely wrong tree…or, perhaps not.  Funny, I _heard_ you were supposed to be quite smart.” He handed Servius the paper with red ink and scrawled comments all over it before moving along.

Servius looked at the marking and scoring, discovered he had failed by a considerable margin, and swore under his breath before scrunching up the paper.  “What tree did he send to your Hog Doss?” he asked William?  “He sent a Crotton Maple to me – was I doing the wrong tree?”

“He’s totally targeting you,” whispered William.  “You should tell your Dad.”

“No way.”

“What about Sluggy then?”

“He’ll just tell my father.”

“Sev, you’ll fail Herbology in your first year if you let him carry on like this!”

Servius shrugged.  “Nah, I’ve got a better idea.  I’ll get Iona to help me.”  At the sound of her name, Iona glanced over and Servius flashed her a huge grin, one that made her drop her eyes and cheeks flag with colour.

It wasn’t until much later that day that Longbottom discovered their Witherwort plant stone dead.  They had forgotten to water it.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Servius’s father was also late.  He was marching across the Entrance Hall towards the marble staircase, a portfolio of papers under his arm, on his way to take second-year History of Magic.  Trailing him were Flitwick, Slughorn and Oosthuizen.

“Do I need to put my leave in on an application form?” Slughorn was asking him, hurrying to keep up.  “Minerva said since I was retired, I don’t formally have to apply for leave now.”

“You’re paid a gratuity for the hours you work, Horace.  If we stop paying you for two weeks then I need some kind of evidence for the Accountant to explain why.  Just fill out a leave form and I’ll take care of it.  When were you going?”

“Next week!”

“No, you can’t take next week – I have the portrait painter coming from Godric’s Hollow -,”

“But the Canal Boat is all booked!”

“He’s a portrait painter, Horace, I can’t just re-schedule him – he’s the only one in the country.”

Ooshuizen said, “Are you going on a canal boat, Horace?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” replied Slughorn in morose tones.  “I thought I was retired.”

They had reached the bottom of the stairs and Snape turned to him.  “Let’s talk about it again later – I just can’t right now.”

Flitwick jumped in.  “Severus, only a second – did you want the archive converted back?  Now that the Slytherin Common Room is in use again.”

“Yes, good,” said Snape, taking the stairs two at a time.  “Please restore it.”

“What if I only went for a week?” suggested Slughorn.

“You can’t,” said Flitwick to him.  “The portrait painter is here next week.”

“The week after that?”

“Can an artist do a whole portrait in a week?” asked Oosthuizen.

“Why does he need a portrait, Severus?” squeaked Flitwick.  “If he’s not Head?”

“McGonagall wanted it,” answered Snape, reaching first floor and marching to room 4F.  “Oosthuizen – why are you here?”

“I work on this floor, sir,” said Oosthuizen.  “But I did want to talk to you about something.”

“Yes?  Quickly.”

“One of the first-years, sir.  His father is going to America with his gene-theory.”

“Yes?  So?”

“His father is not a wizard, sir.  He’s a Muggle.”

They had reached 4F, but no students awaited him.  Snape paused in his tracks and looked at her.  “What do you mean, his gene-theory?”

Flitwick and Slughorn listened with interest.

Oosthuizen took a couple of deep breaths having rushed up the stairs after Snape.  “He said his father had discovered the magic gene and was taking it to America to become famous.  I thought that was a bit worrying.”

Snape frowned.  “Which first-year?”

“His name is William Huan.  Slytherin? I think you might know him?”

Snape’s prickle of alarm instantly dissipated.  “Oh.  No, don’t worry about him.  He’s harmless.”

Oosthuizen did not look convinced, however.  “Can we meet in my classroom sir?” she asked. “Oh, and by the way – some students are asking: is a football club allowed?”

“I have history right now,” said Snape dismissively.  “We’ll discuss it later,” and he pushed open the classroom door expecting to hear complete chaos.

But all was calm in the History classroom.  Snape, Slughorn, Flitwick and Oosthuizen stopped in the doorway and stared.  A roomful of students sitting quietly at their desks looked back at them, and at the front of the classroom, holding a textbook and looking rather cross at the interruption, was Professor Binns.

 

* * *

 

“Did you know Charity Burbage?”

Oosthuizen, wearing a canary-yellow cardigan that could only be fastened by its top button, was walking before Snape, up between the empty desks to the teacher’s dais, unaware that behind her, Snape’s heart was somersaulting. 

The Muggle Studies classroom.  He hadn’t been in it since he’d returned to Hogwarts.  Reasons to were few and far between anyway, but when they had come up, he’d found excuses.  This room was full of memories, redolent with Charity, her space, her domain, the only place in the castle after the archive that made his heart beat faster.  Here she’d been queen, seated at her desk with the sun behind her and he, like a long-lost knight come home, had dropped to his knees and bowed his head before her.

“Yes,” he replied quietly. “I did know her.” Presumably, then, Servius hadn’t mentioned in class that it was his mother that had authored their current textbook.

“Her book is a joy to work with,” said Oosthuizen, mounting the few steps towards her desk.  “So current, so relevant.  And you don’t get many textbooks with humour in it! The kids and I can have a real laugh sometimes.”

Humour in Muggle-studies…indeed, why not?  Charity had been nothing if not irreverent. 

She stood before him, not far from the cabinet that used to house Charity’s microscope.  He could see it no longer resided there; hadn’t for many years. 

“So my concerns, sir, are about the things the Huan boy was saying.  We were discussing some of the genealogy themes in the text and after the class, William comes up to me.   And he tells me his father is a geneticist.  Well, he doesn’t use that word, he’s only eleven, but he knew about the Human Genome Project, and said that his father was a scientist and had discovered the magic gene had was going to America to work on the project.”

Oosthuizen was looking at him extremely earnestly.  She had clearly decided this was a matter of some significance and wasn’t about to be palmed off.

Snape was thinking about Dr Ditton.  An odd coincidence or somehow related?  He turned his attention back to Oosthuizen and nodded and frowned to show his concern.  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.  I’m not sure what it means, but perhaps it might be wise to alert the Ministry.  I know someone who might be interested.”

Oosthuizen looked immediately relieved.  “Yes.  The Ministry.  Good idea. I agree with you, I think the boy himself is benign, but why would his scientist Muggle father claim to have found the magic gene?”

“If he had, would he send his son to this school to tell everyone?  I’m sure there’s nothing in it.”

“Sir, with respect, I don’t think we should dismiss this out of hand -,”

“He’s eleven.  He’s seen something on the television at home and got himself confused.”

“I don’t think so, sir.  He said his father has been working on this for some time.  In fact, sir, he even said that his father called him Pinocchio -,”

Snape lapsed into a perplexed silence.

“Because he made him come to life, he said.  _He wished for a magic boy and made him come to life_.”

Snape shook his head slightly, but the words were strange and slightly ominous. 

“I know Charity Burbage would have taken it very seriously,” said Oosthuizen, not dropping her gaze.  “She seemed to think we were in a race against time.”

 

* * *

 

Having a spare fifteen minutes up his sleeve he hadn’t anticipated, Snape made his way to the Head’s office with nothing more planned than paperwork.  On the way, he bumped into Sybil Trelawney, and they exchanged the normal cursory greetings, but as Snape continued his passage, he heard her call after him.  When he stopped and turned, she was gazing at him with a grave concern that hadn’t been there ten seconds earlier.

“Professor?” he enquired.  “Something the matter?”

“I – I don’t wish to speak out of turn -,” she said, coming right up to him in that disconcerting manner she had.  He took a step backwards.  She stared at him without blinking, frowned, and for a moment he was certain she was going to say something about Charity.  But she said in a pronounced whisper: “Have you noticed anything strange about Professor Longbottom?”

He certainly had, but he wasn’t about to collude with her.  “Such as?”

“He’s searching for something.”

_Yes, Diaphne’s knickers_ , was Snape’s immediate thought, but he said, “Like what?  What do you mean?”  All of his conversations with Trelawney seemed constructed this way.

“He asks for my help.  He thinks I might be able to help him.  He asks me if I know how to find missing things.”

Snape frowned, partly confused, partly irritated.  “Has he lost something?”

“He won’t tell me what it is, so of course I can’t help him, but he’s…strange – don’t you think?  He behaves strangely.”

Snape raised a brow and remained pointedly quiet as Trelawney gazed somewhere inner, waving her arm about so that all her bangles clattered.

“Is there something I can help _you_ with?” Snape asked.  “There’s not much I can do about Longbottom’s mysterious lost item.”

She glanced up and shook her head.  “I mentioned it to Minerva, but she won’t listen.  She says Longbottom is _right as rain_ as she puts it.” She then added with open condescension:  “Minerva has no second sight.”

Snape cleared his throat.  “Well…I’m afraid in that case we’ll just have to leave it there.  If you think he’s bothering you let me know.”

Trelawney gave him a dissatisfied look but didn’t speak again while he turned and resumed his determined walk to the Heads office.  But he was reflecting on her words, her observation, like his, that Longbottom wasn’t...Longbottom. 

When he walked into the Head’s office, Dumbledore was awake and didn’t shy from observing Snape’s deep sigh and noticeable dumping of papers onto The Desk.

“Morning Severus!” he said.  “How has it been so far?”

“Baffling and administrative.  Binns is back.”

“Tremendous!  So he hasn’t crossed over, that’s great luck. For us, of course.”

“Slughorn wants to take holidays while the portrait painter is here.  I’ve had to tell him he can’t.  Oosthuizen seems to think Muggle scientists are about to expose us.  Trelawney thinks there’s something wrong with Neville Longbottom – well I tried to tell everyone that fifteen years ago – and sir, can you answer this question: why does Hogwarts not permit football?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Has there ever been a football team at the school since you’ve been here?”

“Never!” said Phineus Nigellus.  “That’s a Muggle sport!”

“So that _is_ the reason,” muttered Snape.  “How am I supposed to explain that to the Muggleborns?”

“Do the children want to play football?” asked Dumbledore.

“They’re attempting to start a club.  I’ve shut it down but…they’re not taking no for an answer.”

“What’s wrong with Quidditch?” demanded Nigellus.

“It’s not instead of Quidditch…it’s a choice.”

“But if they’re all tied up with football, how can they be good Quidditch players?”

Snape thought of Servius on his broom.  “Not everyone will have a talent for Quidditch.”

“Definitely not if they’re busy kicking a ball around instead of beating a bludger.  There’s no magic in football – literally or metaphorically,” Nigellus harrumphed, and Dumbledore chuckled.

“They are here to learn magic,” Dumbledore stated to Snape.  “All the clubs add to their learning.  They learn nothing about our world by bringing their Muggle activities to Hogwarts.”

“They’re arguing a demonstrable prejudice against Muggleborns by not allowing it.”

“Let them kick a ball about after class,” said Dumbledore calmly.  “But do not endorse an organised club.  If they get football, then next it will be pinball machines and those dreadful Muggle shoes with wheels on the bottom.”

“Roller-skates?”

“We have to draw a line and stand by it Severus.”

“Hear, hear,” said Nigellus.  “You’re getting soft, Snape.”

 

* * *

 

It was late in the evening, the dorms were closed, the corridors shrouded in shadow, only a few torches and sconces left to light the way.  Snape’s nailed boots seemed to ring out as he crossed the Entrance Hall and he glanced quickly around him to see if his outing was noticed.  But he was alone, not even the portraits roused.   As he entered the corridors to the east wing of the castle, he lit his wand, moving his scroll and quill to his left hand in order to hold it aloft.  At the top of the Archive stairs, he scanned quickly about him once more, then descended.

Flitwick and Froggonmore had done their job.  When he pushed open the heavy oak door, he was greeted by the room he knew, restored to its exact shape and proportions, all the shelves and cupboards and items back in their rightful places, the mahogany table once more dominating the space.   Snape felt fluttering in his chest as he lit the fire and the sconces in the room with his wand, bringing warm, ochre glow to the walls, a cheerful crackling.  A mouse scuttled along the skirting and he instantly obliterated it – a direct hit – and he felt as if ten years had suddenly dropped away.  Unable to keep a faint smile from his face, he looked into open space and said, “Charity?  Are you here?”

He waited a moment, but when nothing changed, he went to the table and laid down upon it his scroll and quill.  An inkpot that resided on the table he brought forward, then dipping his quill, he opened the scroll and began to write.

Charity – can you talk to me?

And there came the warmth – her - the warmth enveloped him, intensifying gradually.  He closed his eyes and absorbed it.  He’d thought about little else for days.

“I have the parchment,” he said in a low voice, smoothing it with his fingers.  “Can you write to me?”

He watched as words materialised on the paper.  _Severus I am here, but what am I?_

He read the words several times, unease nudging its way through the contented warmth.  “Can you hear my voice, Charity?”

New words replaced the old: _Yes.  I can hear you, I can feel you, I can see you.  Can you see me?_

“No.  I can feel you but that is all.  My love, I have missed you so much.”

_Am I dead Severus?_

Snape swallowed.  He had not expected this, the Hogwarts ghosts all seemed to know exactly who and what they were.  He remained still and felt her warmth for a moment, then said thickly: “My love, you…you did not survive…all those years ago…I don’t know what you remember…”

A long, empty, lull and then: _I was hanging over the table_.

His feelings were being altered, controlled, as she inhabited him. The warmth drained away to be replaced with a chill, and dread stole over him, his breathe became shallow.

“Yes,” he whispered.  “You were at Malfoy Manor.”

Visions opened up before his eyes.  They were not his, the Archive had vanished: he was seeing the scene at the Manor as she did, upside down, the faces of Death Eaters looking up at her, drifting out her field of vision as she rotated.  The dread: every nerve felt like ice, the overwhelming fear was suffocating, he couldn’t get air into his lungs.

“Charity,” he gasped.  “Let go…”

_Severus…please…_

As the faces, the room turned, he realised with abject horror that her gaze was searching for _him_.  Through her eyes, he saw himself come into view, sitting next to Voldemort, hands laced before him on the table.  To his own eyes he looked sinister: only a kind of madness could make a man so emotionless, indifferent, _callous_. Amongst the fear, he felt her tendril of hope and he choked.

“My love, please, release me…”

_Why don’t you look at me Severus?_

Tears.  Hot and strong, they filled his eyes and burned, then poured down his cheeks.  He didn’t know whose they were, but Charity had cried tears into her hair while she hung.  He stumbled against the heavy chairs at the mahogany table, trying to free himself from the hold she had, rubbing at his eyes, but the vision wouldn’t go away, the tears kept pouring.

Voldemort was talking, but Snape couldn’t make out what he said.  Through the blur of tears, the faces watched and sneered and spun slowly away.

_I won’t die, though, Severus.  You will save me.  Protecting is at the heart of you._

“STOP, _stop_ Charity, let go -,”

And when the vision returned to where he was sitting, he saw himself look up, but his eyes were dead, his expression unchanged, he was as coldblooded as Nagini now residing on Voldemort’s shoulder.  “Ah, yes.”

He felt her hope dwindling.

_I’m afraid, Severus.  My children,_ our _child – what will become of Servius?_

“Charity – my love – I didn’t know about Servius!” cried Snape, his heart now beating so hard he felt sure it must pound though his chest, finally break apart.

Despair replaced the fear, like a kaleidoscope, her view dragged from him and turned to the walls around her as she started to succumb to the inevitable.

_You are not going to save me…I am not to be saved…I am so sorry Holly, I am so sorry Servius…I will watch over you my darlings…_ And there was Servius, a toddler, a cheeky smile, reaching out a chubby fingered hand.

Blindly Snape sank down, and now his throat was heaving, great wrenching, painful, shuddering sobs consumed his world, and these were his scalding tears, he knew now, and when he saw his own stone-like face around the table as she spun, the pain in his chest intensified – he cried for her, he cried for the children, the future, the life he’d been robbed of… and…he cried for himself. 

He wept for that person he’d had to become, who he’d been turned into, the man he’d never wanted to be.  What had happened to the boy who’d been born on the 9th January forty-five years earlier?  He’d been an innocent, promising child like any other, like Servius: but where had his love been?  Why hadn’t he been cherished?  Why hadn’t he been adored and wanted and helped and supported?  Who had cast him out into the world and let that happen to him? 

Why hadn’t anyone cared enough to be his saviour?

_I am not to be saved_ …

He couldn’t tell who said the words, but he was confused – he couldn’t tell apart his own feelings from hers, his own words from hers, his tears from hers. 

Doubled-over on his knees, he heaved for air and rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of his coat like a child, pushing back the damp, lank hair about his face.  His head ached, his throat burned, he was as weak and helpless as if he’d been hit by the Hogwarts Express.  But he was alone now in the archive, save for the mice who scurried and the fire that cackled.  He staggered to his feet.

Her fear and despair had gone, he knew that she had disappeared again and a small part of him was glad that the assault was over for now.  It had been horrendous.  He had re-lived many times the night in the Shrieking Shack with Voldemort, and he was conscious that many parts of him, many places physically and emotionally would never function again properly as a result of it.  Slytherin or no: he could never be in a room with a live snake again, the skin on his neck was permanently dead – and the fear, he remembered it, he remembered it through Charity: the liquefaction inside, the head-spinning rush of adrenalin, the sickness, the nerve-ends fraying, exploding.

But hers had been immeasurably worse.  He rested against the table, waiting for the trembling to stop and the bile to subside.  The attempt on his life had been only minutes in the making – but hers…she had been in the cellar for days.  Voldemort had made a gloating little speech while she hung above the table, revolving.  She had time to realise she was going to die, time to comprehend that those she had loved no longer cared.

In his memory now, he had the entire scene from both points of view.  His own, and hers.  She had taught him empathy at a whole new level, and somehow, through that prism, he had mourned for himself as well.  But Snape hadn’t the mental makeup to be a victim, he was too much of a fighter.  He dominated, that was his father in him, Servius was the same.  He couldn’t stand waiting around while others decided what to do, he strove forwards whether others followed or not.

And it was this part of him that finally drew out a chair from the table and sat down, then with shaking fingers unrolled the piece of parchment, lifted his quill and wrote:

_I am sorry from the bottom of my heart_.

He saw it fade and disappear.  The words were wholly inadequate, and he would come back, he would finish this, he would explain himself.  She wanted to understand, he needed to tell her.  But tonight, things inside him had burned to the ground. He felt like a shell.

Minutes later he left the archive and returned to his rooms.

 

* * *

 

The Duelling Club met on Wednesdays at three-thirty in the afternoon.  Their headquarters were a disused classroom on the sixth floor that Hellmann had decorated to both educate and entice.  This was primarily done with images of all types, size and age depicting wizards and witches engaged in the ancient art of the duel. 

Over time, Wizards fought valiantly for their right to duel, but as deaths and disfigurement mounted, families were destroyed and Muggles got caught in the crossfire, Wizarding ministries across the world combined to create rules and regulations that not only controlled the use of wands and forms of magic, but enhanced the duel as a sporting practice by enforcing some constraints.  The Unforgivables were named and strictly prohibited, and the _International Codes and Regulations for the Sport and Art of Duelling_ were published in 1856. 

Professor Benedict Hellmann was intimately acquainted with these guidelines, and in the past had frequented Club Committees in Europe that argued passionately about the Code, the group usually divided between those protecting and defending the original rules, and those wishing to modify, update and amend.  It often ended in a stalemate, and many an evening he’d returned home from such meetings and complained bitterly to his bored, weary wife as if she somehow counted and he’d get the final word in the end.

While he himself had been a champion duellist, the epitome of his sporting career had been coaching Niels Brockhaus, and he wasn’t above framing and hanging the letters he received from his antagonists across the Club Committee table who were forced to praise his deployment of the art.  He discovered the joys were far richer in acting rather than talking.  After the third year of seeing seventeen-year-old Brockhaus take the number one podium and accept the Crossed Wands to hollering crowds, Hellmann recognised a natural conclusion to his achievements in Germany.  As his long-suffering wife was also keen to explore life abroad, he scented the allure of fresh pastures in Scotland, an untapped well of potential in the uncultured Gaelic stock, and a chance to train his own daughter out of the public eye – she might be brilliant, but equally, she might be terrible, and if it were to be the latter, he would rather keep that off his public profile.

So it afforded him great pleasure to transform the old, dusty classroom into something of a shrine to the sport, and while a great number of pictures showed the old duellists, he wasn’t averse to hanging recent posters of Brockhaus displaying some of his greatest moves and award-winning form.

As the Club members turned up for their first meet, Hellmann took a low-key position at the front of the classroom (not up on the dais, he was not above them) and affected to be sorting out handbooks while the students milled about waiting for the meeting to start, admiring wands on special stands, practice dummies, portraits, books, armour and awards.  They sat in seats that had been arranged in a circle, and when finally all twenty-four had arrived, Amelie, Servius and Wait for William amongst them, only then did Hellmann speak.

“Welcome to Duelling,” he said, leaning back against the dais, his hands holding the edge on either side of him.  “Here you vill learn how to become a Warlock.  A Warlock, for those who don’t know, is a male _or_ female who uses magic against others, usually in some form of professional combat.  Warlocks are not like Muggle soldiers, they fight alone, they fight for a cause of their own choosing and they are guided by their own _moral compass_.” He paused to let this sink in, casting from child to child, noting their earnest, attentive faces.

“The art practiced by a Warlock is known as duelling.  There are two types: combat and true duelling.  Combat duelling involves fighting with magic, usually through some kind of obstacle course, using a wide variety of spells, jinxes and hexes.  True duelling is when the magic from two wands meet as equals and then one must overpower the other.  Combat duelling is a test of your ingenuity and speed.  True duelling is a test of your power and your resilience.  Any questions so far?”

There were smiles all round but no questions.  To Servius, Duelling sounded like heaven.  He’d already been impressed with the room, and this version of Professor Hellmann was very different from the strict, rather theoretically-heavy DADA teacher he’d taken a few classes with.  This Hellmann seemed to sit tight on a simmering excitement, much like Servius himself, and his clipped, Teutonic accent only added to the mystique of the skill and discipline he described.  Servius couldn’t wait to go home at Christmas and tell all his Trowbridge mates he was a Warlock now. 

“In our club meetings, I will show you techniques and you will practice in our shoot house in ze room next door.  I call it a shoot house because it is like what Muggles use to practice using their guns.  Sometimes you will use targets, and sometimes you will be permitted to duel with each other.  At the end of the year, there will be a Duelling contest – one each for Juniors, Middles and Seniors – and for those with true promise, I will be coaching a team to enter the Duelling Championships next year.”

While the students murmured amongst themselves with excitement at this pronouncement, Hellmann reached over to a nearby table where he picked up his printed Handbooks.  “Hand these out please Amelie,” he said, for she sat nearest him, and she duly went to each student and gave them a copy.  When she reached Servius, she dropped the Handbook and he quickly caught it, but she simply stared at him coolly.  “Oops,” she said. 

As she moved off, Servius exchanged looks with William, who looked dumbfounded.  “She _hates_ you, man,” he said under his breath.  “I wouldn’t get into a duel with her.”

“Actually, that’s _exactly_ what I’m gonna do,” muttered Servius.  “I’m gonna _thrash_ her.”

“I think that’s what she wants…” said William uncertainly.

“Zis Handbook you have,” said Hellmann, waving one beside him, “Is the rules.  And there are many rules!  The rules keep you safe, and keep the sport legal.  If I catch you deliberately breaking the rules, you are banned from this club.  Verboten!  Ist das klar?”

“Yes, sir,” said the students as a group.

“Before you even lift your wand, you must take an oath.  It is at the beginning of the Handbook.  You will copy the Oath into your Dossier and next club meeting you will take your Oath over your wand.  If you break your oath, your Dossier will tell me.  If you want to become Warlocks, you live by your oath.  _Dein Eid macht dich zum Hexenmeister_.”

He spoke the German loudly, enough that the students jumped a little in their seats.  He stared at them all piercingly for a minute, his cool blue eyes darting swiftly from face to face, then he smiled.  “Sehr gut.  I think we are all going to have a fine time.  For schoolwork, you will need to practice Charms from Professor Flitwick, as casting spells quickly and effectively is essential to Duelling.  And before next meeting, you must copy and practice your Oath, and read all the rules in the Handbook.  Any questions?”

A few students had questions, but most of the others immediately turned to chatter and flick through the Handbook.  As well as the solemn Warlock’s Oath at the front, the Handbook was filled with minute script in numbered columns, multiple colour plates and diagrams of Warlocks in various postures and stances, and a long list of approved spells and hexes used in the sport. 

“This.  Is so.  _Cool!_ ” said William.  “I say we aim for Chief Warlocks and roam the world like Ninjas, fighting evil magic and stealing their dosh.  Waddaya think?”

“That would be sick and epic,” agreed Servius, unable to tear his eyes away from an image of a cloaked warlock brandishing his wand mightily through the air.  “And wear kickass cloaks with masks!”

“Cor, look at this list of hexes!  OMG.  This is better than _Final Fantasy_ and _The Elder Scrolls_ put together!”

“C’mon,” said Servius, grabbing William by his hood.  “Let’s go practice the Oath right now.”

And Benedict Hellmann watched as William and Servius ran out of the classroom, a small smile of recognition on his face.

 

* * *

 

It was Friday evening, and Snape was exhausted.  He hadn’t slept for two nights – every time he shut his eyes the visions would return, and they were more than memories, they were clearer, high-definition, they were graphic and they were a kind of haunting he hadn’t known existed let alone anticipated.  They were intended to send him slightly mad, he was sure of it.  Nothing changed, the visions would simply repeat themselves, and he fretted that he was supposed to do something, that it was a kind of test; that the visions were on a loop while he took his time realising the challenge he’d been set.

As Headmaster, however, the work wouldn’t hold.  He laboured steadfastly through the list of chores that McGonagall had left behind.  He drew on that automated version of himself to keep the school running, and he started to understand the terrible weight his Headmistress was under, including the lack of sleep: he began to foster an inkling of what she’d been wearing.  Dumbledore was precisely no help at all.  This surprised him, he’d always valued his position as right-hand man to Dumbledore, and always held Dumbledore in high regard.  But as Portrait, he was mostly asleep, and when he was awake, he was more of an interference than a help.  However Snape wouldn’t dream of telling Dumbledore that, he just understood with even greater clarity why McGonagall had sought a deputy.

And by Friday, he discovered lurking beneath his jumbled, slightly disassociated feelings, that he missed Servius.  It was so faint he almost overlooked it.  He found his attention at dinner turned to the Slytherins, searching for his son amongst their number, and felt the flex of his heartstring when he saw Servius seated where he should, grinning, and using his spoon to flick mash potato at the back of a Gryffindor head.

The aim was true, but the ire was wasted – when the Gryffindor’s turned in retaliation, all the Slytherins were innocently eating and talking amongst themselves as if discussing a particularly interesting social studies news item they’d read.  Snape himself ducked his head and focussed on his meal, suppressing a smile.  It was the only highlight of two days.

After dinner, Snape went to the Slytherin Common Room and sought Servius.  He found him with William in a corner not far from the fire, both lying on their stomachs with their black-haired heads almost touching, drawing costumes for when they would become “ninja-warlocks”, the Handbook open and to one side.  Watching their designs take shape were Samuel Small and Ackley Shrew.

“Servius,” said Snape softly.  “You are required.”

“What?” said Servius rolling over.

“I need you to come with me, please.”

Servius rolled his eyes.  “Why?  I’m busy.”

Small and Shrew listened to this exchange with open-mouthed disbelief – Snape was Headmaster!  What Servius actually proved in his conduct – probably unwittingly – was that he did recognise Snape as his father, over and above his position as Headmaster, and back-chatted him accordingly.  Servius viewed him as his father first, and the private realisation of it made Snape smile.

“Nonetheless I would like you to come with me now.”

Servius sighed extravagantly, made a few comments to the other boys, and then got to his feet with much bone-weary reluctance.

On their way out, Snape paused to say to Slughorn: “I shall return him before lights out.  A personal matter.”  Slughorn nodded.

Without speaking, Snape was followed by Servius to the Headmaster’s Tower.  The boy had been in the Gargoyle corridor before, but had never seen the doors open or been up the spiral stone staircase to the Head’s Office.  He stared with amazement as Snape instructed entry, and followed hesitantly as the stairs began to grind their way upwards.

The wide eyes continued into the Office proper.  Snape was perfunctory in admitting him access and lighting the fire, and as he did, he said, “Professor Dumbledore – I would like to introduce you to Servius Snape – first year Slytherin.”

Servius looked at him confused about who he was talking to, but when he heard the Portrait behind the ornate, claw-footed Desk say “Ah, welcome to Hogwarts master Snape.  Step forward – let’s have a look at you,” he gazed at Dumbledore with all pretence at pre-teen attitude dropped completely.  He stepped forward and watched as Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moons.

“Mother of Merlin, you are a chip off the old block aren’t you?” said Dumbledore in amiable tones.  “Are you like your father in all things?”

Servius’s face darkened and Dumbledore laughed delightedly.  “Thank you for that succinct response!”  Snape smiled. 

“Handsome lad,” came the voice of Nigellus, and there were mutters from the other portraits. 

“Servius, Professor Dumbledore is the Headmaster I was schooled under and worked for.  He is a very accomplished Wizard.  All the people in these portraits are previous Heads of Hogwarts.”

Servius glanced about him and as soon as his eyes came to Snape’s portrait, he paused.  “That’s you.”

“Yes,” mumbled Snape tensely.  “That is me.  And I am not going to explain it, we don’t have time tonight.  Sir, may I make use of the Pensieve?”

This question was directed to Dumbledore, who with false modesty declined having any say in the matter, but received the hint that some privacy would be preferred.  Dumbledore told the portraits to have a nap and when it seemed that were ostensibly alone, Snape put his hands on his hips and looked at Servius.

“I told you it was possible for you to see my memories of your mother.  It is an…unusual experience, but I am willing to share them if you wish.”

“How?”

Snape opened the cabinet that contained the Pensieve and drew it out for Servius to see.  “It is a Pensieve.  It allows one to re-experience memories as though an observer and others to view them as well.  I will place memories into it, and we can enter to watch them.”

Servius stared at Snape with a mixture of incredulity and puzzlement and Snape was forced to acknowledge how improbable it sounded.  “Perhaps just permit me to show you.”

Withdrawing his wand, Snape placed the tip to his temple and used it to draw forth a shimmering memory.  He was very selective: he had previously decided that the evening of the Staff Christmas Party would be poignant since Charity had been wearing the blue dress that Servius now owned.  He had to be careful, however, to ensure the memory didn’t go too late into the evening as it became decidedly inappropriate back in his quarters.  He took this glistening memory and it was sucked into the Pensieve, all the while watched by Servius, who had now added incomprehension to his expression.  Then for good measure, Snape withdrew two more favourites: the evening of the Faerie Call and the walk along Diagon Alley.

“Now come to my side,” Snape said, “we are going to enter.  You’ll feel disoriented at first, but no harm can come to you.  And I will be with you.  Just watch me and follow exactly.”

Together they tipped forward into the glowing basin.

It was an extraordinary experience.  Snape knew the scenes almost inside out, and derived as much if not more pleasure from watching Servius see it all for the first time.  As they stood behind the memory of Snape and Charity, watching her emerge from her rooms in the blue dress and Bewitchers ribbon, Snape tore his eyes from her to Servius and saw his son seeming to drink her in, scanning every inch of her, reverential.  “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” murmured Snape.  “She’s wearing the gown you mentioned.”

“Yeah…” said Servius, his voice struggling to find any strength.  “Yeah, she’s really pretty.”

Snape and Servius followed the memory through the party, Servius not saying much, and then on to the balcony with the shining snow.  When Snape kissed Charity, Servius harrumphed comically and said, “You look like you’re trying to eat her face off!”

Snape chuckled.  “I assure you, she’s kissing me back.”

“Urgh!  Nah, yuck!”

This memory transitioned to the other two, and though shorter in duration, they seemed somehow to connect with Servius more.  His eyes shone and an unconscious smile was in place as he watched the fairies fly about her, and he laughed involuntarily with Charity as she enjoyed the Christmassy Diagon Alley.  “That’s the same shops we went to,” he commented, recognised Madam Malkins and Flourish & Blotts, grasping at any place, any moment that he could share with her.  Once or twice he attempted to speak to his mother, and touch her, and Snape had to gently remind him that she was an image, almost a simulacrum, an untouchable effigy.

As the memories concluded, Snape brought Servius up with him and out of the Pensieve, and gave him several minutes to collect himself once he realised they were back in the Head’s Office.  Servius appeared profoundly disconcerted, and Snape could see the boy’s chest rising and falling with the intensity of emotion coursing through him.  With wild eyes, he beheld Snape, and then glanced away again in a manner Snape could only construe as a crashing disappointment.

“You have those memories now,” said Snape. 

“They’re _your_ memories!”

“True.  But she was your mother and I don’t have much else.”

“I don’t have any of my own!” yelled Servius suddenly, and Snape was aware of some of the Portraits grunting awake.   He didn’t respond to Servius but withdrew his memories from the Pensieve and then put it back in in its cabinet.  “Come,” he said, and beckoned Servius to follow him.  “Time to go back to your dorm.”

In their usual manner, Snape led the way through the darkened castle with long, brisk strides and Servius followed behind.  He was expecting the typical silence, but halfway along the corridor, Servius said loudly, “She wasn’t my mum when she was here with you.”

Servius stopped in his tracks, waiting as Snape turned and faced him.  Despite the darkness, Snape could see the light flashing in his son’s eyes.

“She was the same person, Servius.  You’re not the only one who loved her.  She’s mine as well.”  How many times had Snape felt like saying the very same to Potter: _Lily_ _was mine first; mine!_

_“Then why did you leave her?”_

Stung, Snape hesitated with his answer, confused about how Servius could have got it so wrong.  For months, Snape was ill with longing and heartbreak over Charity...but then, when he saw her, he had walked away.  Servius was right: he did leave her.  “I’ve explained that,” he said inadequately.  “She wanted it that way -,”

“You should have kept her safe!  I don’t have my own memories because I was too little when she died - I don’t remember her!  And now I’ve got yours in my head, but she wasn’t my mum then…how – how can you have things like that Pensieve and magic and wands but… _you_ _let my mum get killed?_ ”

Snape’s head throbbed.  His fatigue was blood-sucking, life-sapping – the week had drained almost every ounce of reserve.  He stood and looked at Servius blankly, like an astronaut marooned on Mars, there was nothing, nothing he could say that could possibly satisfy as a response.  Like a reflex, his palms lifted slightly, the mildest gesture of appeasement, but it was at the same time an admission: _I have no answer_. 

Servius was trembling now and Snape took a step towards him, but Servius stepped back.  “Where were you?  Were you there when she died?  Why didn’t you come and get me?”

Snape thought: what if I tell him the truth now?  What would happen if I told him the truth?  _Yes, Servius, I was there, I was right there when she died and I watched it all and didn’t move a muscle.  It wasn’t my actions that killed her, but my inaction.  I who had loved her more than life itself, sat through a meeting while she was consumed on the floor behind me.  I remember it all so well because I have been re-living it in excruciating detail for days now.  Do you want to know if a man can go mad with regret and grief and remorse?  I think it’s possible.  And do you want to know why I don’t throw myself off the Astronomy Tower?  Because of you.  And because death itself would be too easy a way out. I didn’t save her then…perhaps I can now._

Not a sound passed his lips, however, and seeing his father mute, Servius shook his head and looked away in disgust.  Snape didn’t think eleven-year-olds were capable of expressing such a thing: Servius was here to tell him he knew nothing.  Then Servius stormed past him and started running along the corridor.  “Leave me alone!” he shouted as he ran.  “Just…leave me alone.”

 

Servius returned to the dungeon corridor, determined to go to his dorm before Snape showed up to his quarters, but he paced up and down outside the Slytherin Common Room for a moment trying to force his tears to stop falling and rubbing them roughly on his sleeve, sniffing and panting.  When he felt he was composed enough that he could sneak straight through to his bed, he murmured the password and entered.

No-one paid much attention, and he slipped up the stairs, barely remembering to kick his shoes off before diving under the quilt on his bed fully dressed.  He made a tent for his head out of Sinistra’s starry blanket, then grabbed the diary he was in the middle of reading from under his pillow and lit his wand. 

The diary – he riffled through to the right page, still sniffing absently, ignoring the image of his father’s face in his mind, the memories of his mother dancing, of fairies in her hair.  The diaries had somehow become a source of great comfort to him, for some reason he found the struggles and hardships of HBP a great solace.  He felt sure the kid who’d written the diaries would get it, this disorientation, this loneliness.  The writing was difficult to read, and HBP only used one or two initials for all the people he wrote about.  He mentioned an L a lot, a girl, Servius had deduced, and thinking about the only girl he knew of who started with L, he imagined her to be a Linda.  Then there was a group of kids that HBP referred to as ‘the Ms’, that Servius decided sounded like proper wankers, and then another group described only as the DEs. It got seriously confusing in places and Servius often skipped bits.  But he was compelled, because sometimes…weirdly… it felt like HBP was the closest thing he had to a true friend at Hogwarts, the only person who’d understand. 

 


	22. The Warlock's Oath

For several days Snape went to ground.  McGonagall had extended her trip by a few days and he used it as an excuse for reclusion in the Head’s Office, where for hours he sat beside the fire in an armchair and stared blankly at files and correspondence.  He refused to sit at The Desk and ignored the orbuculum, preferring to pace or stare out the window, and, in one blinding moment of rage effected by several whisky’s, he took down his portrait and threw it into a cupboard, only barely restraining himself from crashing it over the back of a chair.  When Dumbledore and Nigellus began their commentary as a result, Snape waved his wand at them.

The visions he’d acquired from Charity’s ghost only gradually began to dim, and he took copious amounts of _Restoration Remedy_ and _Dreamless Sleep_ to knock himself out late at night, only to wake a few hours later and lie with eyes wide, awake, heart racing.

He made a number of futile attempts to write to her, but nothing, nothing he wrote would suffice, now he knew how she felt, now he knew what she’d experienced.  And the words of Servius – _where were you, were you there when she died, why didn’t you come for me_ – ran like a tickertape through his mind, light behind the pinholes seeming to sear his retinas.  There was no respite.

Then late Tuesday, his fourth day without seeing Servius, he was informed by a gargoyle that Concetta Cropper had come to the Tower unannounced and asked to meet with him.  Snape was staring out the window and did nothing for several long seconds, trying to understand why this information was making him hesitate, why it had made him suddenly nervous.  Then he muttered, “Admit her,” and waited, his throat dry, wondering about this flutter of hope he felt.

She entered and came forwards into the office, standing before the Desk, but Snape was still at the far window, elevated from her, and remote.  He turned but did not speak.

“Severus?” she said.  They had perhaps exchanged ten words since their initial introduction; he gave her a wide berth, but she had never addressed him by anything other than his first name despite being virtual strangers.  “I have a patient confidentiality clause in my contract that prevents me naming anyone I meet with, but I thought you might be interested – as Headmaster – if I told you that I have invited one young boy to come and see me because he is showing signs of some distress.  He has become withdrawn and isolated, aggressive, unresponsive and has taken to skipping classes.  I’ve noticed this boy since orientation, and for a little while he seemed to improve, but he has taken a sharp turn recently and I am concerned about him.”  She shrugged her shoulders.  “Unfortunately, he refuses to have anything to do with me. Every invitation is rebuffed.”

Snape listened, expressionless.  When she stopped speaking, there was quiet in the room for several moments, only the ticking and plinking of Dumbledore’s contraptions could be heard.  Then he said hoarsely, “I see.”

She cocked her head a little, her lovely eyes contemplating him.  “What would you like me to do, Severus?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I wondered if you might know why he’s suffering.  Perhaps I can try a different approach with him.”

Silence.  Snape turned again, back to the window.  Cropper began to shiver a little as there was no fire in the room, not even sconces. 

“I don’t believe I can help you with that boy.”

“Why?  Why can’t you help?  Don’t you want to?”

“Madam Cropper, you are speaking out of turn,” he muttered sharply.

“He’s hurting -,”

“We all hurt!” Snape retorted loudly over his shoulder.  “Hurting never killed anyone!  Hurt builds character, Madam, the sooner he learns to deal with it the easier it will get for him.  It can’t be avoided, why should he be exempt?”

“He can’t cope with -,”

“He’ll learn!  We deal with it.  We…find ways, we…have mechanisms and…controls.  He needs to discipline his emotions, discipline his mind.  I did it.  I learnt that.”

There was a stunned silence from the Desk.  Snape refused to turn and look at her, the outburst hadn’t come from anywhere he’d planned or expected, but some small part of him felt envious that compassion was being offered to his son.  The envy wrestled with the fervent hope that somehow Cropper would see through this display and give Servius the help he needed.  He also felt like he’d stepped out onto a ledge somehow, and he’d only done it because Cropper was watching.

“You learnt that?  At his age?” asked Cropper quietly.

“He’s been coddled.  He’s a spoilt Muggle.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Don’t presume to know me, Madam.  Don’t ever presume to think you know me or my life or -,”

“I didn’t.  I guessed.”

He didn’t reply but wrapped his gown around himself a little tighter.

“This boy is very bright, he’s funny, he’s brimming with potential, you can see what a magnificent person he could grow up to be.  I expect he was much like…you at the same age.  Didn’t you grow up as a Muggle?”

It was like the fingertips on his cheek, his brow, just tiny, gentle touches that he could only stand there and accept, nothing he could see or hold or have back again.

“I think we’ve talked enough,” he snapped, whirling in order to glare at her.  “You have my answer.  Good day, Ms Cropper!”

She returned his glare with her jaw set, then she turned pointedly and left the office without another word.  And the voice in Snape’s head that called out after her: _Why didn’t you ask about me?  Aren’t you supposed to know when someone’s not alright?_ was swiftly wrenched from its moorings, whatever hopeless place it had cried out from, and annihilated. 

* * *

 

 

McGonagall arrived back to Hogwarts on Wednesday morning by Flooing to the Heads Office fireplace.  Snape was awaiting her, standing demurely to one side, having spent the previous two hours tidying the office and fixing up administrative loose ends in rather a hurry.  He did not replace the portrait, however.  The cupboard where it was now re-housed was on one of the empty rooms on 7th floor since the Room of Requirement was no longer an option.  He would worry about explaining it when she asked.

“Ah, Severus,” she said with a smile upon seeing him as she stepped onto the hearth and took off her pointed hat and dusted flecks of ash off her coat.  He was glad to see that she seemed a bit brighter, looked rather relaxed – evidently the time away had been beneficial.  “How are you?  How is Hogwarts?  Everyone in one piece?”

“Unchanged, Ma’am. The better for having you back.  How was London?”

She had removed her coat and was now busy _Engorgio_ -ing her luggage.  “Oh, a cup of tea I think, first!  I see you’ve tidied the Office.  Hello, Albus!”

“Minerva, welcome home.  Did you go to St Mungos like I told you?”

“Yes, Albus,” she replied with a resigned glance at Snape, whose brows had risen in interest.  He lifted her bags and carried them through to her quarters, while she magicked the kettle on.  “Seeing as that is the matter of greatest interest to you, I shall report on that first.  But as I said, tea.”

A few minutes passed with little more than small talk and minor news reports as McGonagall waited for the tea leaves to stew (no magic existed to make that any faster) and re-lit the fire.  Snape had deposited her belongings outside her room, and on his return she invited him to take a seat in one of the armchairs beside the fire, then she levitated her teapot and cups to the small pedestal side table. 

Seating herself opposite, she took a deep breath and smoothed her gown.  “Well then.  I have a disease, it is incurable, but it tends to be very slow moving.  They anticipate I will live to a ripe old age in spite of it.”

“What condition?” asked Snape, instantly alert.

“I think the name of it is somewhat inconsequential -,” she murmured, pouring two cups. 

“I should like to know.”

“It’s a completely natural, genetic condition, Severus – it’s not like Albus’s curse -,”

“Ma’am, I still may be able to help.  St Mungos has its limitations -,”

She frowned at him and he paused, but then her brow cleared.  “Actually, I shall confide, but not because I have any expectations.  Rather I think we need to make the most of our time together at Hogwarts, and if I am open with you, I’m sure you’ll be more inclined to return the courtesy.”

He balked inwardly at this, but said, “Ma’am. Naturally.”

After a short pause as she took a delicate sip, she said: “The Healers – whom I trust absolutely – have informed me that I have early stages of the disease known colloquially as Crone’s Decline -,”

“I don’t believe it,” interrupted Dumbledore immediately.  “You are as sharp as ever, Minerva.”

She flicked a glance at him, and continued.  “The Muggles call it something different.”

“Alzheimer’s,” said Snape, his heart sinking.

“That’s right.  When they’ve been _obliviated_ too many times.”

“I have never looked into the Muggle research on it.  But Crone’s Decline…Ma’am, you have perhaps fifty years or more before -,”

“Before old age for a witch,” McGonagall finished for him. “But this disease is somewhat indifferent to that.  As you know, a crone is not defined by her age, but her madness.”

“It’s not madness,” muttered Snape.  “I had a Grandmother who had it.”

McGonagall’s eyes widened.  “Merlin…when you first started…I do recall a grand lady -,”

“She did succumb, not long after,” he said shortly, his gaze concentrated on his tea.

“Then you will understand, Severus, that I want to make the most of my time while I…have it.”

“Minerva -?” said Dumbledore with a warning note to his voice.

McGonagall stood in one smooth motion so that her tea scarcely rippled, and approached the portrait.  “Now see here, Albus – my trip away has made me quite decided.  You were the one nagging me to go to Mungos, and they have done a fine job of confirming my suspicions.  My Healer said this job will do some good to keep my brain active, but I don’t want to keep it active worrying about builders and payroll and disgruntled parents.  It is time for me to see the world and be with people whom I love.  And who…ultimately…may need to care for me.”

“That’s years away,” he retorted.

“I have no war to fight, Albus – I’m not needed here like you were.  I have the indulgence of peace-time to enjoy a retirement.”

“Ma’am,” said Snape.  “There are treatments for the symptoms which will prolong this early stage for quite some years.  I can brew them for you. There’s no need to discuss retirement.”

She stood in the middle of the room, glancing back and forth between Snape and the portrait.  “Why am I arguing with you both about this?  Is the decision not my own?”

Silence descended while McGonagall frowned at them a moment longer, and then she returned to her chair.  In a no-nonsense voice she said, “Severus, I discussed it with Sir Byron.  You will succeed me.”

Snape lifted his eyes to hers but his expression was solemn.  “When, Ma’am?  I’m not ready.”

“The end of this school year.”

“I must decline.”

“That is up to you.  But you can decline when an offer is made, not now.”

He swallowed.  “Perhaps Flitwick?”

“No.  He’s not strategic like you.  The Deputy takes over, you know that, you knew that when you accepted this position.”

“I was under the impression I had several years -,”

McGonagall pulled an annoyed face at him.  “What’s all this false modesty about, this reticence?  You’re perfectly up to the task.  What’s the matter?”

Snape lowered his eyes. “Perhaps another time, Ma’am.”

“He’s been in a state!” declared Dumbledore.  “While you were away, Minerva.”

“What?  From being Headmaster?” she exclaimed.

Snape was glaring at Dumbledore, then looked back to McGonagall.  “No, not being Head, although I understand better what you’ve been managing.  The matter is a personal one.”

“Servius?”

He didn’t answer, suddenly struck dumb by the name.

“What’s happened, is he alright?”

“He’s fine.”

“Severus and the boy used the Pensieve,” Dumbledore informed her.  “It’s a shock for a youngster…I remember Harry -,”

“He saw Charity, his mother?” McGonagall asked Snape, cutting Dumbledore off.  “Was it too much?”

Snape heaved a breath.  “He keeps asking what happened to her.”

“Oh Merlin…oh Severus, that’s going to be tough to explain – I wasn’t aware he didn’t know.”

“I can’t…tell…him.”

“Oh…yes, well I can see how…that would be difficult…perhaps Concetta?”

He shook his head slightly and then sat upright in his chair.  His face had neutralised.  “Will you permit me to brew the treatments for you?  And we can reconsider the Headmaster post again at the end of the year.”

There was quiet while McGonagall studied him.  She was a little sad, but somehow reconciled.  “Yes,” she said finally, quietly.  “Thank you.  I shall purchase the ingredients privately if you provide me with the list.  And Severus…I trusted you with this.  No, don’t misunderstand me, I don’t have any qualms at all that you will be utterly discreet.  I meant, I _confided_.  I told you. I _shared_.” 

* * *

 

Sinistra was in her office, filing, and as the last folder slotted itself neatly away, the cabinet door banged shut and locked itself.  She surveyed her neat, clear desk with satisfaction – it had been a long time since she’d seen that particular tabletop.  But it was now late, she was tired, the full moon on the seventh had kept her up with midnight classes for three nights in a row and she was due for a shift-change to daytime – tomorrow was a day off that allowed her to make the changeover, and she was looking forward to breakfast in bed and a nothing more physically stressful than changing her socks.  She dimmed the sconces and left the office, pulling shut the door behind her.  She was just about to go down the stairs when she heard the faint but familiar and unmistakable sound of her primary telescope creaking on its axle.  It sometimes did that in a strong wind, but the evening was still and foggy.  Had an owl landed on it?  Was there post for her?

Curious, she took the few stairs upwards to the observation deck.  There was moonlight picking out glass and metal, sieved through the fog, but otherwise all was still and dark.  She held for a moment, looking, listening, but then she shuddered from the evening chill and shrugged, turning to go.

A creak.

“OK, who’s there?” she said loudly, overcompensating for the spasm of fear she suddenly felt. 

No answer.

She took two steps towards the telescope and pulled out her wand from inside her robe.  It didn’t pay, in the Wizarding world, to be too casual with your safety after dark.  Strange things, strange beings, preferred moonlight.  And castles hid a lot.

“ _Lumos_ ,” she whispered, and just as wandlight shone out, the telescope suddenly pivoted around and groaned on its unfamiliar cast and she jumped, a small cry escaping her.

“Sorry,” said a voice.  “I kicked it by accident.”

She dipped her wand in the direction of the voice, in the corner, behind the telescope mounts.  And she saw a boy sitting on the cold, stone floor, hood obscuring his face, visibly shivering.  The emblem on his breast was Slytherin, and he wore white Muggle trainers.

“Servius?”

“Sorry about your telescope.”

“What are you doing here?  How long have you been sitting there?”

“I’m alright.  I wanna be left alone.” His voice sounded choked up.

“Don’t be bonkers!  _It’s freezing_!  Why don’t you come with me and I’ll order some hot chocolate?  Come on, the fire’s still on in my office.”

He didn’t reply, and he didn’t move.

“C’mon sonny-jim, upsy,” she extended her hand.  “Upsy-daisy.”

With great apathy Servius rose onto this feet but kept his hood on and face averted. “Good, come with me.”

Servius took a step forward and immediately hit the downward end of the telescope with his shin, once more sending it swinging.

“Servius!” she cried.

A few minutes later they were both in her office.  Sinistra stoked and replenished the fire, but left the sconces dimmed – the boy clearly wanted some privacy.  He was sitting on the plush, velvet sofa she owned, the one on which she and Charity had once sat, drinking Trelawney’s supermarket sherry while Sinistra had confided in times past she’d carried a torch for Severus.  She’d played it down, made it sound as if it were ancient history, used it to prove to Charity how rare and valuable her relationship with him was.  But inside her, in a place she didn’t even want to admit let alone examine, there were embers of envy, fanned by the vicariousness of her position as bestie, witnessing up close what it was like to be the woman loved by him.  The Bewitchers Ribbon she’d enchanted barely worked.  She’d played round with it, remembering an old charm she and her sisters used to trifle with as teenagers, but the magic itself was sketchy at best.  Charity and Severus had seemed convinced the ribbon had almost dangerously bonded them, and Sinistra didn’t do anything to shatter the illusion, but she knew herself it had nothing to do with charms or any other kind of magic, least of all in a bit of old ribbon.  Their love, their bond, had been all their own doing.  Her own feelings came second to that.

She’d hailed an elf to bring hot chocolate and when it arrived, she placed the mugs on the table before them and took the plump seat next to Servius.  “Are you feeling a bit warmer?”

He nodded.

“Can you take your hood off now?”

He shook his head.  He reached forward to lift his mug but seemed to grasp it with difficulty. She saw his fingers were mottled with black ink, not unusual in a first-year, but also looked rough and red.  “What happened to your hands?”

He shrugged.  When he returned his mug, she took his right hand and opened it up. Inside were welts and blisters.  He snatched it back.

“Servius – seriously – I’m your godmother.  Tell me what happened?”

Stubborn silence.

“Don’t be like your Dad -,”

“No!  Don’t ever say that!” he yelled suddenly.

Her eyes widened in horror.  “Did your father do that to your hands – he wouldn’t - ?”

“No.”

Of course Snape didn’t, he could be tough but he wouldn’t have injured Servius.  Carefully taking his hands she opened them palm up.   “Then tell me what happened.”

“Just stupid digging with a spade.”

“Why were you digging?  And with a spade – there are spells for digging –,”

“It was a detention.”

“What?  Who -?”

“Herbology.  I get in trouble a lot with Professor Longbottom.”

“Did you show him your hands?” she said, appalled.  “Why didn’t you wear gloves?”

“I did for the first hour.”

“First _hour?!_   How long were you digging?”

“I dunno. Three maybe.”

Her mouth hung open.  “You were digging with a spade for three hours?  But _why?_ ”

“I dunno.  We knocked over the compost bin.”

“Why didn’t you tell your Dad?  That’s outrageous!”

“The ground was really hard,” he added in a small, choked voice and then snuffled.

“Oh sweet Merlin,” she muttered and drew the boy in for a cuddle against her, noticing his arms and shoulders felt cold and bony.  “We’re telling your father.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“I’m telling him, Sev; that was really wrong.  Your father will be furious.”

“No!  Lame - I mean Professor Longbottom will be even worse if you say anything.”

He was yielding to the embrace and she discreetly pulled back his hood so she could stroke his head and hair, her mothering instincts kicking in like a train.  He hid his face into her gown, sniffing almost continuously.

“He won’t.  Your Dad will make sure of that.”

“I’m not talking to him.  I told him to leave me alone.  I hate his guts.” With gulping breaths, Servius pulled away and collapsed back against her sofa, grimacing.  Sinistra levitated his hot chocolate over to him, and then noticed his face was covered with bruises.

_“What happened to your face!”_

“S’nothing.  Doesn’t hurt like my hands.”

“Was that Herbology as well?”

He shook his head.  “Quidditch.  I can’t ride a fucking broom. It hurt to hold it with my hands.”

“Don’t swear,” she chided.  “When did that happen?  Did you see Madam Pomfrey?”

“Try-outs on Wednesday.  I didn’t make the team.  The bloody Gryffindors made the broom whack my arse when I was leaving – thought it was bloody hilarious.”

“Oh _what?_ ” she breathed in despair.  “Papus lived, Servius, you’ve had a _shocker_ of a week.  I’m assuming by all the bruising you didn’t get them looked at?”

He shook his head, too busy slurping the hot chocolate to speak.  “Have you had dinner tonight, my lad?” she asked tentatively.

He shook his head. 

“Who was supervising the Slytherins at dinner?!”  She cast her mind back.  She knew Snape had missed several.

“Sluggy’s getting his portrait painted in the evenings.”

“Did you sneak off? And don’t call him Sluggy, that’s disrespectful.”

“Will was supposed to bring me something in a napkin but he didn’t show.”

Sinistra jumped up, unable to contain her dismay and consternation any more.  “You’re starving and injured and – for Merlin’s sake, Sev, _what’s happened?_   You’re coming with me right now to see your Dad.  He swore to me that he would look after you.  And I am going to talk to the Headmistress about Professor Longbottom and Professor Slughorn, and then we’ll see Madam Pomfrey, then we’ll get you some dinner – how has this happened?!  Charity – I mean your mother – would be horrified!”

“I told you.  I’m not talking to him.”

“I can’t _not_ tell him - that would make me irresponsible.  He would want to know.”

“No he doesn’t.  He hasn’t looked for me once.”

“What’s going on with you two?” she asked gently, sinking back down on the sofa, noticing tears well in his eyes.  He rubbed his forearm across them and she noticed his robe was filthy.  “I thought you were getting to know each other.”

“He won’t tell me what happened to mum!  I think he knows, but he won’t tell me, and when I asked him why he didn’t save her, he won’t tell me.  And he won’t tell me why he just ignored me for eight years.  I didn’t even know he was still alive!  And then because of him, I have to come here, and I hate it here, and I wanna go home and he won’t let me.  So why does he ignore me for eight years but make me stay here?  And he won’t let me have a football club and he’s a total git to all the kids in his classes so they all think I’m like him, and Professor Longbottom seems to hate me because of him.”

Then Servius was overcome and burst into noisy sobs, shoulders shaking as he stood and turned away from Sinistra, pulling his hood back over his head.

Sinistra sat and stared, trying to process everything he’d divulged, wondering if she was in a bit deep now – he’d clearly come to her out of desperation, the closest thing in the world he had to family, to a mother, to someone who might help.  But she was used to students, not emotionally scarred children, children she barely knew.  Her instincts were to fix this up as a school problem, but this really needed Snape, he needed to be here for Servius.

She stood and placed a hesitant hand on his back, near his neck, then on the back of his head.  “Servius?  Sweetheart, you’re in a terrible state.  Here…” she gently turned him, he didn’t resist, and brought him back to her and embraced him, feeling his hot tears soak into her gown.  “Would you like me to talk to your Dad for you?  I can talk to him like a grown up and make sure he understands how you’re feeling-,”

He shook his head rapidly, almost angrily. 

“Maybe not tonight, hm? Alright.  Why don’t I organize something for you to eat and you can stay here a bit longer?”

There was nodding against her and snuffling.

“Here -,” she found an old beanie on her desk and handed it to him.  “Wipe your face on that, I don’t need it anymore.  Sit down again. You can lie down if you want, that sofa’s ever so comfy.”

Servius obeyed, looking red and puffy and like the saddest zombie in the world.  He plonked back down, wiping his nose on her old woolen hat.  She went to the fireplace and used the Floo to place an order with the grumpy after-hours kitchen elves for soup, sandwiches, biscuits and milk.  When she turned back, Servius was sound asleep, and she found herself wondering how many nights he’d been out of his bed.

Sinistra allowed Servius to sleep in her office for two hours, during which she nodded off herself in her office chair and obtained an excruciating crick in her neck as a result.  Closing in on midnight, she roused him and together they went to Snape’s quarters.  Slughorn, she knew, would be in his home in Hogsmeade, and though she had debated long and hard about letting Servius sleep through the night on her sofa, her own need for rest was getting critical.  He needed to be in his own bed, as did she, but she wouldn’t see Snape in the morning, and somebody needed to be keeping an eye on him.

The dungeon corridor was very dark and she lit her wand on low.  Servius, beside her, could barely keep his eyes open and was of no assistance whatsoever in identifying Snape’s door, but he at least remained upright.

Quite certain she had the right door – being unmarked – and not the brewing room by mistake, she knocked loudly upon it and waited.  Almost instantly she heard: “Who is it?”

“Aurora.  I have Servius.  Can you open up please?”

The door opened wide.  Snape was down to his open-collared, untucked shirt and trousers which she somehow managed to notice distractedly, but his face revealed nothing but alarm and grave concern.  His eyes scanned from hers to Servius in less than a second, and then they widened a little at the sight of his son, who stood slightly swaying with his eyes shut.  “Where was he?”

“Astronomy Tower, hiding behind my telescope.  Severus, I think we need to talk.”

He tore his eyes away to glance at her, frown deepening.  “Now? He needs bed – where did he get those bruises?”

“No; not now.  But soon, I’ll tell you everything I know.  I’m changing shifts tomorrow, but after then perhaps.”

“Yes, uh, yes – thank you, Auora.  I’ll take it from here.”

Sinistra gave Servius a little nudge and he grunted, and she said, “C’mon tiger – Dad’s going to take you to your dorm.”

No response from Servius.  She looked up at Snape and said, “You may have to carry him.”

“Carry him?  He’s eleven!”

“They sleep very deeply, Severus.  And I think he’s not been in his bed for a few nights.”

“What?!”

“That’s one of the things we need to talk about.”

Snape scrutinized her face for a moment to confirm she was serious, then he leant down and hoisted an unresisting Servius over his shoulder, with a slight “Oof!”  Then he turned back into his quarters.

“Where are you going?  Take him to his bed!”

“I’m not staggering about in the dark with this over my shoulder.  He can have my bed tonight.  Sleep well, Aurora.” Then his door swung shut.

 

Snape deposited Servius on top of his bed and considered him.  The boy’s once-white trainers were now covered in damp dirt.  He had bruises all over his face.  His hands looked raw and tender and his robe was filthy.  What under the Constellation of Crux was going on? There clearly wasn’t going to be anything particularly illuminating coming from Servius for now – he had immediately rolled onto his side, curled up and disappeared into nod.  Snape pulled off his shoes and carefully removed the robe as well, then pulled the spare blanket up to cover him before extinguishing the candles in the room.  For several minutes he stood undecided next to the bed, then softly exited, leaving the door open a crack.

In the living area, he put extra logs onto the fire, then collected his winter cloak from its hook and, making himself as comfortable as possible on the armchair, draped the cloak over himself. His mind began reeling and occasionally he glanced at the crack in the bedroom door, half-hoping the boy would awake and then he could barrage him with questions.  The reaction he’d had on seeing him confounded him as well.  It would have been easy to take him to his dorm, but a sudden surge of anxiety and protectiveness compelled him to keep him nearby, under his own watch, where he knew he’d be safe.  His son had come to harm, and on top of the information shared by Cropper, it wasn’t difficult to deduce that Servius had suffered every bit as much as he the past few days.

Snape allowed his heavy lids to close, expecting the scenes from Malfoy Manor, but instead he saw the image of Servius as a toddler, about two or three years old, a full smile of baby teeth, shock of black unruly hair, looking directly at him. But it wasn’t at him, it was Charity the child was seeing, holding his hand out to.  Her remembrance of Servius as she’d said goodbye.  Her pleas and crying had annoyed Voldemort and she’d been gagged – any farewells were only in her mind.  Presumably no-one around the table had been any the wiser that the opinionated Muggle-Studies teacher was leaving two children behind.  Not that it would have made any difference.  But if he’d known…?  Snape wondered again if he would have played that evening differently. 

_I have him, Charity_ , he thought.  _You can rest on that.  I have him, he’s safe with me._  

* * *

 

The next day was Friday the thirteenth and it started fittingly at barely past six am with Servius discovering his whereabouts, yelling expletives at a stiff, still-drowsy Snape and demanding to be released from his quarters.  Snape shouted back, barely restrained himself from jinxing Servius, and objects were thrown.  Finally, at six-thirty and urgently in need of strong coffee, Snape took Servius by the upper arm and frog-marched him to the Hospital Wing, to be met by a bewildered Madam Pomfrey, who had more success winkling the causes of the various injuries out of Servius than Snape did.  Snape had to be evicted from the Wing before Servius would talk, which Madam Pomfrey thoughtfully advised was perfectly understandable.  Even more furious at this needless and provocative spurning of his paternal rights, Snape went to the kitchens for coffee, whereupon the kitchen elves used his sudden proximity to table a long list of complaints and requests about their terms and conditions. They held his coffee hostage while they did so.  He very nearly throttled the nearest elf in a frenzy of impatience, who kept grunting his support of each and every complaint.

When he went back to the Hospital Wing to check on progress, bearing a cup of coffee for Madam Pomfrey as well as his own, he learnt that Servius had been treated and released to go for showers and breakfast. When Snape asked the cause of the injuries, Madam Pomfrey was infuriatingly non-committal and merely explained that Servius had spoken in confidence, a trust she couldn’t morally disobey.  Snape banged down her cup of coffee on to a table a touch too hard, slopping the contents, but which he left and stormed out.

At breakfast, Hagrid had taken all the sausages again, and in the post, Snape received a letter from Narcissa announcing the birth of baby Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy to Draco and Astoria, and an invitation to the Christening in a months’ time.  Snape groaned, simply loathing such occasions, and began the hopeless task of dredging an excuse that would sound plausible.  Servius, meanwhile, sat amongst the Slytherins, his bruises already starting to fade, and utterly ignored him.

Towards the end of breakfast, and facing a double period of potions with third-years for which there wouldn’t be enough ingredients and the students would have to work in rowdy groups, Slughorn appeared in the Great Hall, still knotting his tie, and made his way directly to Snape.

“Severus, Severus - a moment before the bell if I may?”

He was in so foul a mood by this point that Snape’s only means of answering was to glower at him.

“Er, right – well, I just wanted to check everything was in order for you to take over the Slytherins next week -?”

“What?!  I thought you were here – the portrait -?”

“Dear boy, I’ve sat for the portrait all week.  The artist assures me he has ample to take it from here, as it were.  He has a photograph to work from now.  He can animate it at any time apparently so we’ll do that at a later date.  I did put in my leave form, did you get it?”

Snape was distracted trying to figure out where he’d lost a week.  “Uh, um – yes I suppose -,”

“So I’m off to Toulouse tonight by Portkey.  Send an owl if you need me, but I don’t think there’s a fireplace on the boat.”

“I see.”

“There’s a House Meeting next Wednesday, but apart from that, it’s just business as usual.”

“House meeting?”

“Yes – Slytherin House Meeting, SHM – don’t tell me you’ve forgotten them, Severus.”

“No…no of course not.”

“Oh, and the Slytherin Quidditch teams are all selected – don’t forget to get a photo of them in uniform.”

“Me?  Why do I - ?”

“Must pack, Severus!  I’ll leave the last of the Potions marking for you in your office, alright?  Toodle-pip!”

And Slughorn hastened away.  When Snape looked up, Hagrid was contemplating him with detached interest, chewing the last sausage.

The day continued in a similar vein with first-year potions in the middle, during which Amelie Hellmann presumably did something to Servius’s potion to render it worthless judging by his remonstrations, but nothing could be proved, and Snape was obliged to _scourgify_ it.  Snape was virtually numb with hatred for the day by now, and Servius’s skin-flaying glares bounced right off him.  Immediately after class, outside the door, Servius hexed Amelie with a _Steleus_ , which Servius strenuously denied had anything to do with him, but he was rather undermined by Wait for William who was muttering emphatically: “Don’t break the Oath, Sev!  You’ll be Verbotened!” and the rather unimaginative choice of hex which Snape knew was Servius’s best and only one.

Snape calmly counter-hexed Amelie, whose continuous sneezing had her hiccupping in between and her eyes streaming, and sent her on her way.

“Verbotened is not a word, Master Huan.  What Oath can’t he break?”

“The Warlock’s Oath sir!” burst out William before Servius kicked him. “Ow!”

“You’ve taken the Warlock’s Oath?”

“We both have sir!”

“Will you shut up!” hissed Servius, then turned black eyes on Snape.  “So. Is it detention for using wands?”

“Watch your attitude.  Recite the Oath.”

“Sir?”

“You claim to have taken the Oath.  Recite it.”

“No way!”

“So it’s not true.  Or did you fail it?”

“No!” said William.  “He only failed Quidditch try-outs.”

“For fucks sake, Will!”

Snape’s hard stare softened a little when he appraised Servius, who blushed up the back of his neck and stared at his shoes.  “Is that where the bruising came from?”

Wait for William was clearly desperate to fill Snape in on all the details, but he clamped down on his tongue and neither spoke.

“In that case, recite the Oath or it will be double detention for using wands and using profanity.”

Servius fidgeted and sighed from the depths of his now-grey coloured trainers.  His eyes glanced everywhere but at Snape and it was only after William nudged him that he finally mumbled, eyes down:  “When a Warlock shall do homage to his duty as a witch or wizard of great responsibility, he shall hold his wand before him upright and his hand upon the book and shall say thus: “I become a Warlock from this day forth, for life, for member and for worldly honour, and shall bear fealty to the rules and the customs in this book that maketh a Warlock a witch or wizard of virtue, integrity and reason, so help me Merlin. _Semper fidelis ad veneficus et deorum_.”

Snape listened, and mouthed the final few sentences along with him, though his moving lips were barely discernable.  Wait for William had watched hard and encouragingly through the whole thing, and then beamed at Snape at the finish.

“You are a Warlock initiate, Servius.  Congratulations. You as well, Huan.”

“Thank you sir!”

“On your way.”

“Sir?”

“Go.  Now.  Both of you before I change my mind.”

The pair gave him one last glance before disappearing, no cloak required. 

* * *

 

Friday the thirteenth continued through to dinner, which was ox-tail and tripe, a meal Snape detested, as did, in fairness, everyone in the Hall, even Hagrid, who cleared his plate nonetheless.  Snape barely touched his own, and was thinking about sneaking out early when he remembered he had to see the Slytherins to the Common Room and oversee end of day.  He felt like banging his head on the table, but then his mind went to the memory of Servius reciting his Oath, and the enormous swell of pride he’d felt, and how he would have given anything to see Servius take it, holding his wand upright and his palm flat upon _The Sport and Art of Duelling_.  Snape hadn’t taken the Oath himself until his fourth year of school, and then was later forced to rescind it when he swore his allegiance to the Death Eaters and Voldemort.   That particular initiation wasn’t quite so pretty. 

Things didn’t get any better when Hellmann slipped quietly into the empty chair to the left of Snape, cleared his throat, and said, “Professor, I regret that I must talk to you about a matter that is awkvard.”  He had taken off his glasses and was wiping them busily with a napkin before replacing them and blinking at Snape.

“Which is?”

“My daughter, Amelie, she said that Servius hexed her after Potions class today, and that you undid the spell, and that Servius did it for no reason votsoever.”

“Well…that is up for debate but…yes?”

“Professor, I regret, but I sink that Servius haff broken several rules, and I would like that he should apologise to Amelie.  She is very upset, ja?”

Snape paused, knowing exactly how Servius would respond to that idea.  “I have, in fact, already punished Servius for his misdemeanor -,”

“Ja, but, my good sir, Servius has taken the Vorlock’s Oath, and to hex an innocent person unprovoked would normally be treated very, very seriously.  If he swears to act vith virtue and integrity, then he should apologise.  You don’t see zis?”

The person acting with the least virtue and integrity the way Snape saw it was Amelie.  She was making a top notch Slytherin.

“Ah, we really don’t know that he was unprovoked -,”

“Amelie did something?!” exclaimed Hellmann, causing McGonagall to turn slightly and glance over.

“There was some…problem with Servius’s potion…there’s no proof so…”

“Servius’s potion?  But how is that Amelie’s -,”

“Yes, yes I do understand Professor,” snapped Snape, his last fingers on any rope slipping free.  “I do not expect Servius will make a genuine apology if forced to do this.”

Hellmann regarded him with concern.  “You are saying that Servius was not _sincere_ when he took his Oath?  His Dossier would have indicated that I think -,”

“Fine.  And if he doesn’t?” Snape ground out.

Hellmann looked rather aghast that this might be even a consideration.  “Vell, I’m deeply sorry Professor Snape but I don’t see how I can haff him continue in Duelling -,”

Snape heaved an inward sigh.  Exactly what he’d predicted.  “Leave it with me.”

He didn’t broach the subject with Servius that evening, however.  From dinner, he shepherded the Slytherins – including one rather smug looking Amelie – down the dungeon stairs and to the Common Room.  The Slytherins were full of questions about Slughorn’s holiday and Snape’s caretaking duty and what the Slytherins were like when he had been Head of House in the past.  It didn’t take long before it began to feel like putting on an old pair of slippers.  Plenty of routines he’d used to enforce were challenged and questioned with claims that “Sluggy doesn’t make us do that!” and “Sir, I don’t think that’s been a practice since 1998”, but duly, the junior Slytherins were pyjama’d and bedded with Prefects instructed to ‘lights out’ at eleven, since it was Friday.  Snape also placed an old portrait of Ostanes near the hidden entrance and told him to provide immediate notice if anyone was seen coming or going after dorms were closed.

With a tightening in his chest, he walked back along the dungeon corridor and stopped in at his office, where he partook of some liquid fortitude before opening his hidden drawer and collecting his enchanted parchment and quill.  The unlucky Friday he’d endured gave him some reservations about what he was about to do, but he’d also been steeling himself for over a week.  It was time to follow-through with Charity.

The last two occasions had been so unpleasant, he had developed a bit of an aversion to the archive and knew that subconsciously he’d procrastinated what needed to be done.  He recognized this as a weakness in himself.  Fairly or not, he now had a duty to help Charity’s lost soul, and he loved her so that the only thing he found more difficult to countenance than his own suffering was hers.

Like a shadow, he made his way in the dark to the Archive, and, like the previous visit, spent the first few minutes attending to light and heat.  The room was unchanged, but his view of it had – anxiety made his hands clammy, and when he went to the table and picked up his quill to write, at first he couldn’t make his fingers grip it properly.  Then he wrote: _My love – will you talk to me?_ and the words dissolved away at the slight tap of his wand.  “ _Convey_.”

Presently, he felt her suffusing warmth around him, and a melancholy smile rose to his lips.  “Charity…I’m here.  Share with me.”

After a moment he felt her invisible fingertips touch the skin on his face and then seemed to stroke his hair and he stood motionless, trying hard to wrap his mind around what was happening.  “How do I feel to you?” he whispered.

Words materialized on the parchment, even while he could feel her fingers.  _You feel like you, how I remember you, the same_.

“I don’t understand how it can be.  I don’t understand what you are.”

_I feel halfway.  You told me I died.  Why am I here?_ Her touch disappeared.

“I - I think you’re not at rest, that your spirit or your soul is trapped here.  You haven’t…crossed over.”

Some minutes went by before the words appeared: _How do I cross over?_

“I don’t know, my love,” said Snape shaking his head slowly, no longer sure what he even believed. “Are you here all the time?”

_No.  I don’t know.  I see you, I see Servius.  Moths._

“Moths?  Your Patronus…”

_Help me._

“I will try.”

_Where am I buried?  Where is my body? I can’t find it._

In spite of her warm glow, an icy blade of misgiving sliced through Snape.  He didn’t speak.

_Is it lost?_  

Snape swallowed hard against the hot lump in his throat.  “Yes.”

_Where is it?  Help me._

“My love, what good will come from knowing?”

_I’m driven to know.  To rest._

When Snape hesitated, he felt her warmth start to diminish.  _Severus? Help me_   said the parchment.

He began to shiver as the air turned frigid.  Her warmth had left entirely, and in its place a tragic sadness, yearning and an inner, empty cold.

“I think you know my love,” he said finally, closing his eyes, every muscle tense.  “I think this is my punishment.”

_The snake_.

“It was not my doing,” he muttered, hanging his head, shivering almost painfully.

_My final resting place._

“No, no my love, we will lay you to rest.”  The sadness; such unutterable grief.  His whole chest and throat ached as if he were being gently strangled.

The room around him dimmed, and then behind his lids, were visions.  Quick, staccato, mere flashes of an image.  He saw Trelawney and he saw Nagini.  Once more, through Charity’s eyes, her recollections plagued him.  Trelawney was gazing vacantly, eyes wide behind her glasses, and her lips were moving but the words were almost unintelligible.  There seemed to be darkness around her, flickering candlelight below.   The scene cut to Nagini at Malfoy Manor, the giant reptile sliding up the side and shoulder of Voldemort, then back to Trelawney.  What was she saying?

“Charity…release…me…” gasped Snape, staggering backwards, as tears coursed down his cheeks and his heart pounded.  “Sorry – I’m so sorry -,”

And she was gone.  The light in the room glowed again, the barren cold faded away, the tears dried into tracks along his cheeks.  He breathed deeply for a little while, simply staring ahead and almost waiting for her to return, but the archive seemed only polite and neutral.

A flickering in the corner of his eye caught his attention.  He turned: it was a moth, small and pale like fragments of ash.  It beat frenzied wings and crawled along the edge of the mahogany table before alighting into the air and disappearing into the shadows.

The parchment lay on the table, and he moved to pick it up.  The only word remaining were: _Always speak the truth.  And your love will find a way._


	23. The Dead, the Dying and the Dastardly

“Alright, settle down, settle down.  On to the agenda.  What’s the first order of business, Ruby?”

Snape nodded to seventh-year Ruby Morely, the Chair of the Slytherin House Meetings, and who – despite wearing her hair in two jaunty bunches with an emerald bow for each – was unusually humourless for a Serpent.  She frowned darkly at each of the other five boisterous Slytherins sitting on the Common Room sofas or drawn-up chairs, and then consulted her Dossier.

“Sir, we need to discuss House Points.  It’s only first term and Slytherin has fallen to third place.  We lost a lot of points after that food fight -,”

“The one about the Quidditch?” checked Michael Tattinger.

“Yes -,”

“They stairted it!” declared Ben McGregor.

“Well four Slytherins were in trouble for that and they each lost five points each,” continued Morely.  “We lost fifteen points when Blake and Cox put that invisible paint on the Gryffindor bench-seats - ,”

“Totally worth it!” declared Reggie Chiverton.  “Did you see their green arses!”

“Again, they stairted it!” said Ben defiantly.  “Hae ye never bin stung by a billywig?”

“We don’t know it was Gryffindors,” murmured Snape not looking up.  While he was supposed to have some sort of facilitation role at the meeting, he’d made himself comfortable on a leather armchair with one ankle resting on his opposite knee to use as a balance while he marked papers.  Turned out the holidaying Slughorn had left him quite a pile.

“Sir – Professor Hellmann -,” began Chiverton.

“I know what Professor Hellmann thought he saw.”

“Professor Hellmann gave me ten points for my supplementary assignment,” said Talia Clarke, her pointed nose even sharper when she was being huffy.  “That must have helped redress the balance.”

“Professor Hellmann is really generous with us, have you noticed?” said Chiverton. “Better than Sluggy.”

“Professor Slughorn, please,” said Snape.

“There’s been half a dozen points here and there lost to individuals for minor infringements,” said Morely in a slightly raised voice.  “But…one Slytherin has earned eighteen points alone in six weeks, it would seem…” she trailed off.

Snape’s brows drew together and he glanced up.  “Which Slytherin?”

“Uh -,” said Morely, giving her Dossier rapt attention suddenly.  The other students swapped looks and Snape’s heart sank.

“Servius?” he asked, his tone cool as he flicked his gaze to each student.

“Sorry sir,” said Morely. “He seems to be having a bit of…trouble.”

“I am aware of it,” murmured Snape, his mouth dry.   Tattinger was sitting opposite him and Snape felt the weight of his eyes, tried to ignore them but eventually conceded.  Tattinger’s expression was of concern and solicitude, as if he too felt somehow responsible.

“Carry on,” said Snape gruffly, and he bent back towards his marking, but for a long time the words on the paper made no sense at all.

 

* * *

 

After the House Meeting, Snape had an appointment with Sinistra.  Their schedules hadn’t allowed for a discussion before now, but she had sought him out during breakfast to arrange a time and Snape had readily agreed.  He headed directly for the Astronomy Tower to meet in her office, at her suggestion, noting he felt somewhat anxious but also oddly eager to see her – it would be a relief to have someone he trusted to share the burden.

He bound up the stairs, greeted the Bloody Baron who was making his way down, paused to wonder if the Baron was aware of Charity’s ghost, then shook his head and carried on, collecting himself outside Sinistra’s door before knocking. 

“Come in, Severus,” she called, and when he entered and found her sitting rather formally at her desk – and she looked…different.  Her hair was loose and fell around her shoulders, and her lips looked shiny and her eyes were…pretty.  Instead of her high-necked witch’s gown, the type Charity had taken to wearing, she had a soft wool, rather clingy, blush-coloured top with a deep V-neck, and Snape caught a glimpse of lacy bra when she leaned forward.  It was hard to drag his eyes away from her décolletage which he didn’t recall ever seeing before.  He was confused.  Did she often dress like this but he’d never noticed?  Had he come for the right meeting?

“Tay – take a seat,” she said, suddenly swallowing hard, gesturing at her velvet sofa. 

He sized it up and replied, “Thank you, but I’ll sit here.” She had an uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner on which she stored a broken spectrometer, and it took several moments for him to carefully re-situate it on the floor before drawing the chair forth.  Then he positioned himself opposite her, across the desk, and forced himself to look at her face.  When she wasn’t looking at him, his eyes dropped to the smooth, bare skin, hoping for a hint of that bra again, the gentle swell of what it contained.

“Severus,” she began, “We need to talk about Servius.  Here’s what he told me when I found him on the Observation Deck the other night.”

She related everything and Snape listened attentively.  Too attentively.  He was staring. And she stammered once or twice, and colour rose in her cheeks, and she took two sips from a glass of water on her desk.

“So as you can imagine,” she said, drawing to a close, “I thought perhaps you could take him to see Concetta because he’s on this downward spiral at the moment -,”

“His broom was going in the opposite direction,” said Snape.  “He had no control of it at all.”

“Did you talk to him about that?  He must have been so humiliated.”

“No,” Snape admitted.  “I assumed he’d want to put it behind him.  Madame Cropper informed me she has already approached him and he has declined any…meeting with her.”

“But you’re his father.  You can insist on it.”

“Those meetings will do nothing but raise more questions.  I’d rather deal with the problems.  Such as Longbottom.”

“I’ve talked to Minerva about Neville,” said Sinistra, sounding defeated.  “She won’t hear of any possibility of bullying.  She says Neville already mentioned to her that Servius took a long time to dig the hole, but that he wasn’t digging the entire time, rather mucking about and trying to get out of it.  According to him, the whole exercise would have taken half an hour if Servius had applied himself.”

“Did you happen to mention the questionable notion of hard labour for a first-year detention?”

“It was for a tree-planting apparently.  Subject related.  Much like…cleaning cauldrons, I expect.”

Snape frowned at her.  “Detentions aren’t meant to be fun.”

“Hm.  That’s what Longbottom would say.”

He scowled into the middle distance and she said hesitantly, “Severus, when are you going to tell Servius the truth about Charity?  Doesn’t he deserve to know?”

“Why?” he snapped.  “So that he can feel worse?  Hate me even more?  Feel completely vindicated in rejecting everything about this world, me included?   You?”  What he couldn’t articulate was his cold, hard dread at the prospect of losing Servius because he hardly knew it himself. 

Sinistra considered him in gentle surprise.  “You would miss him, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” he retorted.  “My life would be a great deal simpler without him in it.  But…well, I have a duty and…I take my responsibilities seriously.”

There was quiet while Sinistra stared at her desk and seemed to search for words.  “Have you considered what…his mother might want?”

“More than you know,” he muttered immediately.

“He thinks you were aware of his birth.  He thinks you just didn’t want to know about him for all that time.”

“How am I supposed to explain that I erased all trace of her?  I’ve told him that I love her still, that I wanted to be with them during the war but that I couldn’t…he took comfort from that…how can I tell him the truth now?”

“Well is it so far from the truth?  You did want to be with them – but you thought you couldn’t.  It was a mistake – he’ll understand that.  Severus -,” she looked at him appealingly.  “Just listen.  What if you told him the truth, and yes, he hated you, maybe even for a long time.  But then…came back?  Maybe he’d learn to forgive you?  It might take some time, but then at least…at least it would be with a clean slate.”

Snape shook his head.  “He would go.  He would be lost to the Muggles forever.  But all he has is his grandparents and they are elderly, and I sense they are moving on without him -,”

“What?  They what - ?”

“They think he has found a home here.  They never adopted him, and now they think he’s with me they are withdrawing.  To them, he is an unpleasant reminder of the world that took Charity away.  A world into which they were never invited, didn’t understand and which never explained her loss.”

Sinistra’s eyes were wide and dismayed.  She shook her head.  “Oh Merlin, this is terribly complex.  I -,” she shook her head some more.  “I don’t know what to do.”

“Neither do I.”

“But you always know what to do…”

He saw himself at the table at Malfoy Manor, watching Charity slowly rotate.  _“Ah, yes”_ he’d said.   

“No,” he replied.   “No, Aurora, I don’t always know what to do.”

 

* * *

 

It rained.  So much rain, the first Junior Quidditch match was cancelled.  It fell like an iron curtain outside every window; the Forbidden Forest looked to be half its normal height, the trees laden with water, and the lake lapped high above its tide-line, swilling precariously close to Dumbledore’s sarcophagus.  A damp and miserable Hagrid could be seen emptying full buckets outside his front door on the hour, as much steam as smoke emitting from his chimney. So too were buckets deployed in the castle, once more on the seventh floor, while Flitwick attempted every charm he knew to plug the holes and chinks.  “It’s water!” he explained to every bewildered person who asked.  “Water!  The most magical property in the solar system!  D’you honestly think it won’t find a way in if it wants?”  But there was nothing stormy or tempestuous about this downfall, no passion in its non-negotiable, unequivocal dump of precipitation.  The only recourse was to outlast it.

McGonagall fretted about the castle when she saw it leak.  She couldn’t stay away from the seventh floor during the deluge, caught up in that fruitless human foible of watching and worrying in hopes it will somehow allay the worst.  It was during this vigil that she absently opened a cupboard and happened upon Snape’s portrait, which she extracted, rain momentarily forgotten, held before her and shook her head.  Then she returned it and carefully shut the cupboard door.

When classes had finished for the day, she summoned Snape by Floo to her office, and when he arrived she said simply: “Walk with me, please, Severus.”

Silently falling into step slightly behind her, they ascended the moving staircase to the seventh floor corridor, and with a vehement muttering she went immediately to the stone wall next to a large tapestry and ran her fingers across the surface.  “Wet,” she declared, and looked at Snape, as if this were somehow his doing.  “Help me take this down, Severus.  See; it’s the one of Harry defeating Voldemort in the Great Hall.  I won’t have it ruined.”  A moment’s inspection permitted Snape to absorb the stitched image of a very discernible dark-haired, bespectacled Harry appearing much more solid and muscular than he remembered, in an exaggerated pose with his wand aloft, clearly expelling the overly ornate Elder Wand into the air, while a somewhat puny, slightly reptilian and aghast Voldemort was launched backwards in defeat.  Surrounding the scene, to the light of the floating candles, were jubilant rosy-faced students and half a dozen or so be-masked and hooded Death Eaters, who cowered and bent their heads. Snape’s mouth twitched, but he refrained from comment while he assisted McGonagall lower the tapestry with her wand and carefully roll it up. It wasn’t that he disagreed with the outcome or Harry’s deeds, but rather the shamelessly hyperbolic version of history as told by the winners, something likely to irk the majority of Slytherins when they laid eyes on it.

“Please, would you carry it?” asked McGonagall.  “I think I know a safe place to store it.  I’ll arrange for Filch to have it re-hung on a lower floor corridor somewhere.”

With a dent between his brows, wondering what all this was in aid of (he had cauldrons still bubbling in the brewing chamber), Snape followed McGonagall with the tapestry levitated beside him into an empty room of which there were several on this floor.  He recognised the room immediately as they entered through the door – there was the cupboard – and realisation began to dawn.

“Here is a good place!” said McGonagall with a glance at him.  “It should be quite safe in there I think.”

“Ma’am – obviously you’ve been -,”

“But what’s this?” she stated in mock surprise upon opening the cupboard door.  She looked back at Snape and held his eyes as she pulled out the portrait.

He heaved a sigh.  “I think it’s better left in there.”

“Why?” she demanded, all pretence now dropped.

Snape used a moment to carefully lower the tapestry to the floor while he thought.  Outside the rain poured steadily and the bleak, grim light of day scarcely penetrated the dense windows.  The painting itself looked dark and shadowy: an unsmiling Snape in black against a sombre background.  Is that how he was remembered, after the war?  The painting conveyed a collective experience of him, and the reflection was somehow far worse than even a mirror.

As if reading his mind, McGonagall looked at the portrait at arm’s length – not easy for a small woman as the paining was a decent size and heavily framed – and remarked: “Do you not like it?  I think it’s accurate; it’s faithful.”

“I don’t like it, no - but not because of its quality.”

“You don’t like who you were then – when it was taken?  The original picture I mean.”

“Ma’am – you were there – I think you and I can safely say that it was the worst year of my life.  And I’ve had some bad years.  I have no pride attached to the time or appointment.  I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t earn it, and if I hadn’t had Dumbledore’s guidance throughout, I’m not sure I would have done very well at it.  It was little more than a strategic manoeuvre and deserves no more in any memory than the movement of a chess piece on a board.  Ma’am – I don’t believe you if you argue otherwise.”

She was listening to him, paying close attention and in the quiet that followed, the rain steadily drummed, so much so he barely heard her when she asked: “Did you know Voldemort intended to -,”

“No.  I didn’t.  But I had resigned myself to the notion that death, ultimately, must be inevitable.  ”

Snape remembered each dawn when he would find himself still alive, but someone else had died, and he would think: what if we fail and he wins? What will become of my life?  How long will I have before he discovers the truth?  And his thoughts would degenerate to the same point, always the unavoidable, incontrovertible conclusion that no future existed for him.  He would die fighting for the Order or die for his betrayal. 

And yet, perhaps for his sins, he didn’t.  Fate had other deeds for him.

McGonagall stood still, watching him, and he lifted his eyes to hers.  “Ma’am… I need your help.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

* * *

 

The portrait and the tapestry were carefully stored.  McGonagall said, “Do you know, I remember this very cupboard.  I was scoukin’ when my parents came to collect me for summer holidays.  I didn’t want to go home, I never wanted to leave Hogwarts,” she smiled.  “They didn’t search for me, they just waited until my conscience got the better of me and I went down. I was aye tae obedient for my own good.  I might be a Gryffindor but I had a strong Ravenclaw rising.”

“There is no need for you to ever leave Hogwarts,” said Snape.  They were walking now, along the damp, empty corridors of seventh floor, sometimes patching up a Flitwick plug or moving a bucket.  McGonagall wore a fur-lined shawl that she drew tightly around her shoulders and tucked her thin hands deep within her folded arms.

“This is the first time I’ve ever actually thought of life outside school and work.  I have a lot of nieces and nephews scattered about the world – I want to visit them.  But I still have a place in Hogsmeade. There’s folk in it at the moment, but if I need it, it’s there.”

“You’ll always have a home here.”

“Severus – what do you need my help with?”  She deflected the abruptness of the question by _scourgifying_ a net of cobwebs off a coat of armor.  Not being subjected to her penetrating gaze made it easier for Snape – they both knew it.

“You…you mentioned you knew someone who had crossed over,” he murmured, clasping his hands behind his back.  “I wondered…if you knew how to help them.”

McGonagall busied herself cleaning the next coat of armor along.  “Hmmm, I’m assuming you’re not about to help Professor Binns find his way, so can I ask how come?  Are you being haunted, Severus?”

When there was no immediate response, she glanced at him and he nodded faintly, his eyes dark.  “I think so.”

She paused, considering him.  “Charity?”

“Yes.” The word was barely audible.  He loathed this kind of admission, the opening of clandestine places, the humiliation.

“Is she haunting you alone, or is she generally about the castle?  I haven’t seen her - ,”

“She’s not like the Hogwarts ghosts, Ma’am.  She’s not visible.  I can summon her, and as far as I know, I alone am aware of her.”

“So she is haunting you in preference to the place she died.  Then her unrest stems back to you,” McGonagall resumed slow steps along the corridor and Snape took his place alongside.

“The ghost I helped,” she said, in conversational tones, “was my husband, my _guidman_.  He died traumatically and he didn’t ken he’d been killed.  These are true ghosts and they are confused and lost and their souls are trapped in limbo while they come to terms with their demise.  Sometimes they need some care in finding their way to the light, but sometimes they can’t leave until unfinished business gives them the peace they need.  Such was the case with my husband.  He fretted about my welfare, my safety and security because I couldn’t let him go.  Once I had the chance to process his loss, and I moved into Hogwarts, he gradually faded and then was gone.”

Snape almost forgot his own thoughts while he pondered on McGonagall’s words.  He’d had no idea she once was married – clearly it was long before his time – and yet, he’d never asked.  He felt ashamed, someone he’d valued as a friend and colleague had kept these memories to herself for so long and he’d never stopped to enquire.

“Are they real, Ma’am?  This isn’t just some….manifestation of my…guilt or, or remorse?”

“What’s the difference?” she replied shortly.  “It felt real enough to me.”

He swallowed.  “She…she didn’t know she was dead.  I had to tell her, and it was worse than watching it the first time.”

McGonagall looked up at him, grave sympathy and concern marking her eyes and brow.  “I can’t imagine, Severus.  I heard…well we heard what we thought happened to her.  Of course you never said muckle at the time.  I expect she was waiting for you to do something?  To save her?”

“Yes.  I – I couldn’t.”

“A wee test from Voldemort, no doubt?”

He lowered his eyes.  “At the time, she represented no more to me than an acquaintance – I had erased all memory of our…time together; I hadn’t seen her for years.  Had the circumstances been different, I would have done anything I could to have saved a work colleague - or a lover, you know that Minerva, you know I would have tried anything, I did try -,”

“Severus,” she said with a note of alarm.  His use of her name surprised her. “You would have.  We know that.  You didn’t forsake her -,”

“But I did!  What else do you call it?  But what could I do?  Why couldn’t I think of something?”

“Severus, calm yourself, you won’t change anything now -,”

“She didn’t know.  She still loved me the same, she thought I did too, but that I – that I -,”

There was a stone seat where the corridor on the north wing met with the east, and McGonagall sat upon it, one leg crossed over the other, her long skirts draping down to her ankles.  But Snape couldn’t sit.  Instead, he stood nearby before an arched lancet window and gazed out into the sheets of rain.  What watery light remained ebbed as though rinsed away.

“Has Charity’s ghost sought atonement? Or does she seek something else?”

“She’s asked for my help.  She doesn’t know how to cross over.  How do I help her?”

“You need to discover what is keeping her in limbo…you must set to right whatever wrong is an obstacle, what is worrying her.  Has she given you nae clue at all?”

The visions from the latest encounter flashed into his mind.  “There was a prophesy – from Trelawney – a long time ago.  She foretold Charity’s death.  It’s in riddles, I can’t make it all out, but Charity gave it to me, like a memory.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows raised, then she reached over and took Snape’s hand and patted it comfortingly.  “Then that’s braw.  Put the lass’s memory into the Pensieve – she gave it to you, now find out what it means.”

 

* * *

 

The rain was days behind them, but it was going to be a frosty evening and twelve shivering children sat on stools around the Observation Deck of the Astronomy Tower, putting their Dossiers away into their rucksacks and talking. 

“Don’t forget to mark the transit points of that meteorite on your starmaps,” said Sinistra, placing lens caps back on the individual telescopes and her binoculars around her neck by their strap.  “We were lucky tonight, weren’t we Stargazers?  I hope everyone made a wish?” She smiled at them, looking for confirmation.  She had herself, she did every time she saw a shooting star.  Always the same wish.

“What are transit points?” Wait for William muttered to Servius.  William was only in the Stargazers Club because Servius was and he wasn’t good at staying focussed – in any sense of the word.  Sinistra was constantly adjusting his lenses for him and bringing his attention back to the group. 

“I’ll show you later,” said Servius, and stood to hoist his rucksack over his shoulder.  Once again, he glanced out over the ramparts, into the clear evening, and this time was rewarded with a movement in the sky.   An owl.  It was flying towards the Tower and he stared.  “Tāne?” he wondered aloud.

William jumped up and, after witnessing the owl with his own eyes, thumped Servius on the upper arm.  “There you go mate!  Told you he’d come!”

The pair hustled through the jostle of exiting students to stand before the ramparts, awaiting the owl, but it swerved steeply and flew over the top of the castle, not even slowing down.  Servius watched it go looking mildly stricken.  “It wasn’t Tāne.”

William looked as galled as his friend. “Oh well, next one mate.  Maybe he’s carrying something huge.  Maybe it’s slowing him down?”

“He’s not coming, alright?” Servius snapped in reply.  “For fucks sake, Will, give it up.”

“Fuck you Sev,” was the rebuttal, but William was hurt.  “It’s not my fault.”

Sinistra had heard the exchange, only faintly, but enough to make her look over her shoulder at the boys, surprised that any of the students were still there.  “Who’s that?  Is that you Servius?  William?”

“It’s alright.  We’re going,” said Servius, but William called for him to wait.

“Look!  Sev, look – it’s Lamebottom!  What’s he doing?”

Servius returned to William’s side and looked to where he was pointing.  Down below, in the shadows of the courtyard, moved a man dressed in Longbottom’s trademark moleskin trousers, wellingtons, patterned jumper and apron.  As they watched, he pulled a winter cloak about his shoulders and began a purposeful stride across the width of the courtyard towards the steps at the far end.

Sinistra had joined them and peered over the edge.  “What are you boys looking at?”

“Professor Longbottom.  Out for a walk,” said William.

“That’s amazing – how can you tell from here -?” She lifted her binoculars to her eyes.  “No that’s not him – Oh!  Yes it is…he just didn’t look…quite right.”

“Where’s he going Professor?” asked Servius as they observed him hastening down the steps onto the steep slope that led to the dirt track.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, still looking through the binoculars. There was something about him that niggled.  For a start, his boots seemed to be too loose on him – his gait became slightly ungainly as a result, as if they were about to slip off at each footstep.  He kept glancing around him, clearly keeping a close look-out, and within a minute, he had lifted the hood of his cloak and she could no longer make out anything distinct.

“He’s going into the Forbidden Forest,” pointed out William with his uncanny knack for stating the obvious.

A distant bark rang out.  All three glanced towards the noise, coming from the location of Hagrid’s Hut.  There was Fisk, the hound’s tail slowly swinging back and forth as he noted the unusual passage of the hooded Professor slip into the shadow of the denuded trees.  The dog was clearly as undecided as they were why Longbottom would be entering the Forbidden Forest at night.  The boys wouldn’t get it, but Sinistra - with her decades at Hogwarts - knew that grown-ups lurking in the Forbidden Forest after dark almost always signalled some nefarious plot afoot.

The two boys turned their attention to Sinistra expectantly as she lowered her binoculars.  “He, uh, he could be…I don’t know…collecting nocturnal specimens?  Or maybe it’s something for Halloween?  Whatever it is,” she concluded in brisk teacher-like tones, “it’s none of our business.  Now look at you both, teeth chattering.  Hot chocolate?”

“Oh yes please!” said William, and smiling, nudged Servius.

Servius shook his head. “I can’t.  Professor Snape wants to see me.”

“Professor – you mean _your father_?” said Sinistra.  “Honestly, Servius, this is getting silly.”

“Oh.  I forgot about that,” said William.  “Actually, we’d better go, we’re late.”

With a rueful expression, Sinistra stepped aside to give them room as they swung their book-heavy rucksacks over their shoulders and began the descent down the Tower stairs.  She shook her head.

 

* * *

 

Snape was in his office in a Floo meeting with a chap from the Ministry of Magical Education about funding for roof repairs.  It hadn’t gone well, and a knock on his office door gave him an excuse to call the meeting to a close, so he promptly lit a fire to break communications as the accountant attempted to sneak in a final word.

He was about to swing his wand and open the office door when he recognised voices outside, talking.  He was expecting Servius and William as it was now the appointed time to meet, but he paused to listen closely when he heard Servius say, “It’s because I don’t have a mum.  If mum were still alive, I would’ve gone home.”

“So was your Mum a Muggle too?”

There was no answer from Servius.  Snape imagined that Servius had shaken his head. Or had he nodded?

“I don’t have a Mum either,” said William.

Snape literally had his ear up against the door by now.  It was hard to hear them clearly through the heavy wood, and he frowned in concentration as he listened.

“Where is she?  Did she die?”

“Don’t think so.  She left when I was born.”

“Gone where?”

“Back to America I think.  My Dad paid for her to have me.”

“What?” said Servius, echoing Snape’s thoughts exactly.

“I saw it on this paper that belongs to my Dad.  Like a contract.  She agreed to grow me in her stomach like a normal baby, but when I was born, she gave me to Dad and then she went back to her home in America.  So only my Dad was around when I was little.”

“Wow,” responded Servius thoughtfully.  “So your Dad didn’t even like, _know_ your Mum that well?”

“He said he wanted a magic boy, not a wife.”  William sounded philosophical.

“What if you’d been born a girl?”

Idiotic giggling for a moment that made Snape roll his eyes, then William said, “Dad said he could make it so that I would definitely be a boy.”

“Are you?” joked Servius.  “Are you sure?”

“More boy than you, I reckon.”

More idiotic giggling then there was a pounding on the door and Servius yelled, “Professor?  Are you in there?” Further snickering.

Snape abruptly swung open the door causing the two boys to fall back in surprise.  Snape found his attention turned to William, the magic boy brought to life, and he studied him fleetingly with a slightly perturbed curiosity before turning back to Servius.  “Come in.”

The pair followed him into the office and Snape took his seat behind the desk, whereupon he rested his elbows on it and steepled his fingers, considering the pair as they stood awkwardly waiting.  After one or two minutes of contemplative silence, he sat back and announced, “Servius, you are to apologise to Amelie Hellmann.”

Predictably, Servius cried, “What?  NO!”

“You broke your Oath.”

“So did she!”

“Did she hex you?”

“No, but - ,”

“She ruined his potion sir!” said William, his face as appalled as Servius’s.

“You took an Oath.  What can I do?  If you won’t apologise, Professor Hellmann will ban you from Duelling.”

“You’re taking her side.”

“I’m trying to keep you in the Duelling Club.  Professor Hellmann said you showed great promise.”

“Sir, this isn’t fair -,” began William.

“Is there anything about taking that Oath you didn’t understand?” Snape snapped in response. “Didn’t the warning in the first club meeting make sense to you?  How about your Dossier reporting back any infringements?  What exactly _isn’t fair_?”

The boys fell silent for a moment, then William said in a small voice, “She keeps getting away with it.”

“All the more reason not to fall for her antics!”

“You failed me in that potions class and she didn’t get punished at all,” said Servius.

“I couldn’t prove she did anything.”

Servius and William looked at each other.  Then Servius said, “I’m not apologising to her.  Not ever.  I’ll do detention.”

“Then you’ll have to explain that to Professor Hellmann.  What do you suppose he’ll do?”

“He’ll kick you out, Sev,” muttered William, and Snape’s ears pricked at the sound of the nickname Lily had used to call him by.

Servius had a face like thunder.  Hot blood pounded along the artery in his neck, Snape could see it from where he was sitting, and the black eyes were blazing.  His breathing came hard through his clenched teeth and jutting jaw.

“Servius -,” he had time to say warningly before the boy exploded, shoving at the items and papers on Snape’s desk then swinging around and kicking over one of the heavy wooden chairs. 

“ _I fuckin’ hate this place_!” he hollered.  “People here are jerks!  I just wanna go home.  I fuckin’ hate it here and _I fuckin’ hate you too_.”  And with that he grabbed the strap of his rucksack and stormed from the room.

In the silence of the office afterwards, William turned back to Snape with eyes as large as the giant squid’s.  Snape glared at him.

“Sir – um, maybe you should know – Sev’s been in a bad mood all day -,”

Snape’s eyes merely narrowed.

“It’s his birthday, sir,” said William.

It was October 26th.  Servius was twelve.

 

* * *

 

And now was the last day of October: Halloween.  The All Hallows Committee – overseen by Oosthuizen - were in full swing and had been given exemption from classes for the day to decorate the Great Hall and create a spookily-festive ambience in time for the Halloween Party, which had been their chosen means of celebrating.  The tables were cleared away after lunch and the Hall opened up for dancing, as the students had voted resolutely in favour of a fancy-dress disco, replete with Wizarding rock band _The Sibylz_ , and the Great Hall ceiling had been converted to a single, flattened disco ball.

The party was due to start at eight pm, but before then, and after classes for the day, there was a Duelling Club meeting.  On the sixth floor, with William, Servius stood with a pounding heart flat against the wall in the corridor, watching as the other members turned up and went directly into the Club rooms, chatting and laughing with excitement about the forthcoming evening. 

“Come on Sev,” said William.  “Just get it over with.  I think it’s a great idea.”

Servius shook his head.  “I’m not ready.  You go in.  Keep a seat…well, just in case.  I just need a minute.”

“You sure – I can wait -,”

“No.  Go.  It’s okay, you go.”

William hesitantly started towards the door, glanced back, then dropped his head and walked into the club rooms leaving Servius alone in the corridor.

Servius quickly ducked into the nearby washrooms, raced to the nearest sink and gagged over it, but his mouth and throat were bone dry.  He ran the tap and sluiced water into his mouth, then splashed his face with icy water.  It made him gasp.  He gripped the sink and looked up, into the mirror.  “You can do this,” he croaked, remembering words in the Handbook.  “You’re a Warlock.”

His black eyes stared back at him and for a moment, he saw his father.  It made him step back in surprise, and he was himself again.  But when he furrowed his brows, there was his father, like a tracing over his face.  “Ah, shit,” he muttered, and for some reason, a laugh erupted.  “Just what I need.”   He pulled his hood over his head so that his eyes fell in shadow and took a deep, shaky breath.

He exited the toilets and with legs like jelly, forced them across the corridor and towards the now shut door of the Duelling Club rooms.  When he reached it, he raised a fist and banged hard upon the wood three times.

Silence from within, perhaps surprised.  And then he heard Hellmann say, “Ja? Komm herein.”

With sweaty palms, Servius pushed open the door and walked into the room.  The Club members were seated in a wide circle again and every single pair of eyes turned to him, quiet and unsmiling as he paused at their perimeter.  Professor Hellmann was seated at the apex, if it could be called that, and when Servius came to a standstill, he tilted his head back slightly and appraised him.

“Master Snape.  You wish to join us?”

“Yes sir,” mumbled Servius.  “I – I must seek forgiveness to honour my Oath.”

Hellmann nodded and watched closely as Servius took heavy steps through the gap in the chairs and approached the centre of the circle.  All eyes were on him and the silence was deafening.

Servius turned on the spot until he faced the chair upon which Amelie was seated. She looked up at him steadily, her face blank, but there was heat in her eyes.

Withdrawing his wand, Servius bent to lay it down before her feet.  Then he stood very upright, unknowingly the image of his father, and said as clearly as his constricted throat would allow: “Amelie – I am sorry I hexed you.  I am sorry for what I did, and if I hurt you or humiliated you.  I was wrong.  And I give you my wand to show that I beg your forgiveness and…and I will let you decide if I can…if I can continue being a Warlock.”

It wasn’t a grand speech, but it was the lone work of Servius and it cost him greatly.  His heart was still thumping hard in his chest, and he forced himself to look into the ice-blue eyes of his enemy.  Hers were intense, unwavering.  They were, he noticed, fringed with thick black lashes that only seemed to emphasise the clarity of them – he could almost see himself reflected. The chemistry pulsed between the pair and every person in the room held their breath while they watched.

Amelie didn’t speak, but slowly arose from her chair so that she stood mere inches from Servius.  Still holding his gaze, she bent and picked up his wand, then handed it back to him.  But still no words, no smile, she barely even blinked, and he received his wand uncertainly, watching.  She then reached into the drapes of her robe and withdrew her own wand, which she raised before her at forty-five degrees.

There was some hushed murmurs and Professor Hellmann cleared his throat. “Everyone – see – Amelie has challenged Servius to a duel.”

Servius heard the words but he didn’t look away.  He noticed that Amelie’s eyes had dropped from his own and seemed to scan his face briefly before returning, and then flags of colour rose to her cheeks.  Her lips parted.  Her breathing quickened.

“Do you accept, Servius?” Hellmann asked.

“Fu-u-u-ck,” he heard distantly.  Wait for William.  Hellmann snorted crossly.

The interruption helped Servius find his voice.  Strange things were happening inside him.  He had become fixated on her parted lips, the glint of white teeth behind their softness, her eyelashes, her fierce blue eyes.  He hated her…hated her.

“Yes,” he gulped.  Then he raised his wand and crossed it with hers. They buzzed slightly at the touch.  She locked onto his eyes and time ground to a standstill.

“Then, I think,” said Hellmann, breaking the tension like a pick-axe, “through to the shoot room.  It is set up.  You may use the _Assingo_ charm.  The blue will remain on your uniform and I will assess it – the Warlock who receives the most direct hits after twenty minutes loses.”

Placing a hand on one shoulder of both Servius and Amelie, Professor Hellmann guided them from the meeting circle to the door beside the dais, through which the shoot house in the adjoining room could be reached.  The other student warlocks followed in a little, shuffling, wide-eyed knot and when Servius glanced at them, he saw Wait for William raise his thumb and force a smile.

Hellmann turned to the pair before opening the door.  “The house has been arranged in its traditional setting, which means it is constructed of the walls and baffles.  You can swing the walls horizontally or also vertically for defence, but remember, the idea is to be offensive and fire as many hits as you can at your opponent.

“When you enter, Servius turn right, and Amelie you turn left.  A baffle will move between you and the main lights go off.  I will shut this door and time you.  After twenty minutes I will call time and the main lights will turn on again.  You must stop and return to this door.  Verstehen Sie?”

“Yes sir,” said Servius.

“Only the _Assingo_ charm.  Am I absolutely clear about this?”

“Yes sir.”

Hellmann looked at them both earnestly for a moment or two, his eyes had a gleam to them that had nothing to do with his glasses.  Servius was frankly surprised that he was agreeing to let them duel – perhaps he knew Amelie was about to demolish him and thought this was a good means of teaching him a lesson.  Well it was too late to back out now – he had crossed wands with Amelie and his body was still slightly reeling from the sparks that had flown between them; he would just have to make the most of it.

With his own ebony wand, Hellmann opened the door and revealed the shoot house.  It was proportionally almost the size of the Great Hall – it must have been several empty rooms joined together.  Like all the other classrooms, the walls were stone, the floors ancient oak boards and along the west wall were tall, shuttered windows.  But the interior space was like nothing Servius had ever seen: wall-like partitions of differing lengths and heights were erected on poles, or suspended invisibly in mid-air, or pivoted on a beam.  Each of the partitions was decorated differently to look as if constructed out of wood, brick, stone or even hedge, with shapes cut out to resemble windows, and some were mirrored, reflecting an infinity of other walls.  Each panel intersected with another, creating corners and angles and narrow passageways, and as they watched, Hellmann went forward and eased a floating partition towards him so that a passage that had been open to the right, was now closed, and an alternative one opened on the left.

“Remember your Oath, Warlocks.  Virtue, integrity and reason.”  Hellmann pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch.  “Get ready.  Your time…starts…. _now!_ ”

The room had been brightly lit with gaslight before, and this suddenly dimmed to a few candle sconces at intervals along the classroom walls.  As the door shut behind him, Servius had time to register Amelie dashing away to the left and he quickly made to the right and hid behind a partition where he stopped and tried to think. It wasn’t easy, his heart was hammering, and even though he knew he couldn’t be hurt, the awareness that somebody in the room was hidden and hunting him electrified his nerves.

Yet it wasn’t enough to stay hidden.  He somehow had to find Amelie, and then he had to try and get her with a shot from his wand.  And for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, he urgently wanted to find her, intrigued with the idea of somehow _catching_ her in here, alone.

He shut his eyes and concentrated on his breathing and thought: _what would HBP do in here?_  

In the diaries, HBP seemed to find himself constantly plotting for, or in the throes of, hexing and jinxing guerrilla warfare.  The incidents mostly comprised of one or two shots fired away between individuals or groups, but they were on a slowly, escalating arc of sophistication and harm, including something dangerous that seemed to have happened in some kind of tunnel.  HBP professed vehemently in his own words that attacks on himself were anticipated or of a lowly standard, but Servius detected beneath that the nuances of fear and even panic.  It seemed the more HBP fought, the more distant L became, and the growing awareness of loss was paralysing to him.  Servius wanted nothing more than to dive into the diary and grab HBP around the shoulders and say, “Dude, tell me what you want me to do.  I’m here, I’ll help, I’m on your side.  I’ll tell Linda or whatever her name is that you’re a good guy, and if she goes with them, then _she’s_ the loser.”

Servius felt that HBP would have mastered this shoot house within minutes.  He would have noticed everything, analysed it with speed and accuracy, then gained controlled himself.  HBP seemed to have some ability to separate his emotions under stress, something Servius admired desperately.  He felt himself the opposite, and even now his anxiety made thoughts and decisions pop like bubbles in his head: nothing stuck, nothing held as a plan.

_Control your emotions_ , he thought to himself.  _Discipline,_ _that’s what HBP always says to himself.  I am my own master.  I am in control.  I will discipline my mind, my emotions_. 

And for a full minute, Servius concentrated on reining himself in tightly.  Anything not useful in his head, he shoved away.  He breathed until the nerves were still and his heart slowed and his fingers around his wand were calm.  _I am in control.  Now find Amelie_.

He listened as he started to move.  He searched for any evidence he could find: a sound from her, or from the partitions moving, a shadow, a candle flicker.  He crept as silently as he could through the baffles, trying not to breath, staying low.  Wherever he went, the walls seemed to come together and block him like a maze, or usher him down an avenue to nowhere.  When he least expected it, the wall he was hiding behind would shift or change, and maps in his head were instantly useless.

He was poised behind a brick-rendered wall, trying desperately to hear her, when the panel shunted sideways and the next thing he knew was the shout of _“Assingo!”_ and a blue mark had hit him squarely in the chest.

Amelie stepped out from behind the wall, smiling at him.  “You’d be dead now, if that had been the Killing Curse.”

“What are you doing?” Servius blurted.  “Why are you showing yourself?”

“Do you still want to play?”

“The twenty minutes aren’t up!”

“Well then – go on – hit me.” Her smile dropped a little, but she held his eyes.

“That’s not how you do it.”

“Can’t you hit a girl?”

“It’s not that you’re a girl, it’s that you’re not duelling.”

She raised her wand and pointed it at him.  “Do you want me to hit you first?”

“I don’t get what you’re doing!”

“Run, Servius.”

But he didn’t.  He aimed his wand and cried _Assingo_ and hit her on the shoulder.  The blue mark glowed brightly against the black of her robe.  She looked at it and smiled, then looked at him again.  He ducked, and grabbing the nearest partition, which was mirrored, it swung around unexpectedly – he thought it would slide up, but it was pivoted in its centre and the edge of the partition collected Amelie on it way round, pushing her directly into an unsteady Servius.

He stumbled and fell and she fell on top of him, and when he twisted over onto his back, instead of rolling off, she laughed and sat up, astride him.  Then she grabbed his wrists and slammed them onto the floor on either side of his head, knocking the wand from his grip.

“ _Incarcerous!_ ” she hissed, and his hands were pinned.  She didn’t get up, she stayed splayed atop him for a moment and he felt her warm weight, her scent of shampoo and girl type things, conscious that her school skirt had ridden up her bare thighs as she straddled him across his groin.  What was she wearing beneath her skirt?

“Your Dad -,” he gasped, and she sat up a little to look at him intently.

“Yes.  Listen, before the lights come on.  You and I – we’re the same.  We want to go home.  We hate it here and our fathers won’t let us leave.  We can help each other.  I will help you get expelled, and you can help me.  You can go back to a Muggle school and I can go back to Durmstrang.  I was a top student there, they will take me back.  And -,”

 Her eyelids lowered, she stared at him.  He felt her heat - heat where she sat on him.  “We can have fun.”

He stared back, speechless.  His mind was working over her words, but below – it was weird.  It wasn’t responding to _him_ at all.  It was responding to the heat, to the bare thighs, to the sheer closeness of her.

A fuse in his head blew.  He struggled and bucked and she swung off him.  She merely smiled at him, though, unconcerned.  “What do you think?”

“I – I don’t get it.  I thought you hated me -,”

“We don’t have time.  I need you to do something.”

“What?” he said in a mild panic.  HBP was no help at all right now.

“ _Assingo_ me.  Like…three times.  You need to win this duel.”

“Why?  No.  No way.  It’ll go to my Hog Doss or something.”

“It won’t.  But I’ll be the one in trouble anyway.  Please?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“So my father will think I’m no good at duelling.  He will give up on me.  Then I can go home to Durmstrang.”

“That’s…kinda like…” he wanted to say cheating, but it looked more like _he_ was the one who’d be cheating.  “I don’t believe you.  You’re playing a trick on me.”

She seemed to expect this.  She leaned towards him and held his eyes again.  She had an expression he’d never seen on her before: it looked…sincere.  “Why would I Servius?  I have helped you get closer to your goal than anyone here. I like you very much.  Trust me.  Trust me.”

He gazed at her, hypnotised.  Words bubbled up but died in his throat. 

She rose slowly to her feet, releasing his bind, and he was like a cobra to her flute, also rising, hardly aware he was doing so.  He watched as she lifted her wand.  _“Assingo,”_ she murmured, and a blue mark hit the sleeve of his gown. 

“Now do me,” she said, and she _accio’d_ his wand before handing it back to him.  He saw her eyes meet his as if in slow motion.  “Three.  In different places.  Trust me.”

And hardly knowing what he was doing, he raised his wand, and with his wand’s faint _huzzes_ , he marked her thrice.  She smiled throughout, and he thought, _she’s really pretty_.

Then the gaslights came back on.

 

* * *

 

_The Sibylz_ were pounding out party-starting pop music up on the stage and throwing themselves about as though possessed, and the be-costumed teens of Hogwarts were loving it.  It was the Halloween Party, and wands had to be handed in at the door (kept under close watch by Hagrid), otherwise probably every student would have had them alight and aimed upwards to bounce off the reflective angle-mirrored ceiling, which had to make do instead with the light of hundreds of candles and four strobing wands of different colours ‘operated’ by the band’s roadies. 

Great kegs of red-tinted Butterbeer were flowing freely (to middle and seniors only), served by scantily-clad coven-members paid by the hour, and floating mounds of extravagantly carved and glowing pumpkins decorated all the darkened corners of the Great Hall.  It was the students themselves, however, that were the most eye-catching, in their costumes created for the theme of “dead, dying or dastardly”.  There was a lot of fake blood makeup, masks, blackened eyes, crooked teeth, mock-machetes, unattached limbs and drawn-on scars.  A laundry’s-worth of bed-sheets comprised ‘hospital gowns’ for the girls, and a lot of ripped trousers and shirts comprised the boy’s ‘undead’ uniform. 

Snape, on duty and manifestly _un_ -costumed, was almost invisible in his black as he patrolled a darkened section of the Hall and kept watch.  The party was only two-hours in, but he had the beginnings of a headache and, despite all the apparent novelty, was bored.  Unless he was teaching, the pastimes and amusements of teenagers held no interest for him – he was happiest when everyone got to go their separate ways.  But, he was deputy.  And nobody had his talent for spying trouble. 

He had his eye on a little group of third-years who were huddled around what might have been a lighter, when he felt a touch on his arm.  He turned to find Sinistra smiling up at him.  In her stiletto heeled, thigh length boots, she didn’t have to look up far.  She had made some attempt at a costume, but Snape couldn’t make out what she was supposed to be exactly – that was of less interest than the ripped fishnet stockings and the extremely figure-hugging short black dress she was wearing, also torn in several places.  Perhaps she was meant to have been attacked or slashed by something – regardless, it very successfully revealed a lot about her highly beneficial exercise programme, moisturising regime and her mother’s good genes.

“Aurora,” he said pleasantly, although of course she couldn’t hear a word.

“Severus, it’s good to see you’ve gone to so much trouble,” she half-shouted sarcastically.  “At least tell me the boys have worn their costumes?”

Snape pointed to Servius and William.  The pair were headbanging with abandon, dressed in their new Ninja Warlock outfits that Snape and Sinistra had hastily organised as a late birthday present.  Following William’s revelation, Snape’s inspired method of dealing with his dire parenting fail had been to drink several whiskies at his desk, until he remembered the designs he’d seen the boys drawing in their Dossiers, and had then gone directly to Sinistra in her quarters.  When she opened her door in her dressing gown and found a rather inebriated, open-collared Snape on her doorstep, she wondered if finally her wish-upon-a-star had come true, but then she discovered he was distraught and garbling something about a birthday present and couldn’t she magic something up for them the way she and McGonagall had for Charity’s witch’s gowns?

When finally she’d made sense of the problem, she, Snape and Froggonmore convened the following day and transfigured some older school uniform cloaks into very impressive black velvet-lined, fur-trimmed deep-hooded cloaks, with mediaeval clasps at the collar and silver inscriptions and symbols around the shoulders.  Each cloak was, naturally, accompanied by a black eye-mask and a leather belt for holding the multiple scabbards, wands and daggers the boys had apparently decided was necessary for such an occupation.  Snape approved highly of the final product and knew that he, at the same age, would have very likely worn such a costume to its death.  In some ways, he still did.

To Sinistra, he’d given the task of packaging and offering the gifts.  He knew that coming from him, Servius would reject them outright.  As it was, the same afternoon, he saw both boys lurking about the castle courtyard dressed as their alter-egos and pretending to hex any student that poked fun at them.  There was nary a thank you, but he didn’t expect one.

Sinistra smiled at the sight of the pair, and nudged Snape when she observed Iona MacGhee sneak up behind Servius and pull his hood off.  “Ah, young love,” she commented fondly, but Snape wasn’t listening.  He was staring hard before him at something he’d glimpsed, something he thought must have been his eyes deceiving him.

Through the flashing lights, the shadows, the throng of dark, moving bodies, he’d seen a Death Eater mask.

The glint off its metallic sheen was unmistakable.  Pale, full-faced and ornately engraved, with slits for the mouth, it chilled his blood to see it, even if only for a moment.  The bearer in a black cloak had glanced in his direction for barely a second, and then melted out of sight.

On instinct, Snape lurched into the crowd, bodily moving students out of the way and slipping his wand into his hand as he went.  He scanned frantically, searching, and was rewarded with another glimpse: the masked wearer having clearly seen him was looking in his direction, then once more disappeared, this time behind the east wall and into the alcove leading to the ante-room – the room that opened to the balcony where he’d kissed Charity.

Snape stormed after him.  He hadn’t seen a Death Eater mask in almost a decade.  They had been confiscated by the Ministry, his own had disappeared somewhere in the Hogwarts Battle.  This was either an excellent duplicate worn by a student as a prank, or an old recruit had held onto theirs and it had fallen into the possession of someone, possibly illicitly, most likely a Slytherin.  Either way, to wear it in Hogwarts was neither funny or smart, in fact it was prohibited, but more so to Snape, it was harrowing; it made his hair stand on end.

Suddenly, blocking him, was a barmaid with a tray of empty glasses.  He waited impatiently for her to pass, and by the time he could advance again the Death Eater had vanished.  Snape raced to the short section of corridor but it was completely empty, with no means of exit.  He heard faint noises coming from inside the ante-room – only an hour earlier he had evicted Reggie Chiverton and Hufflepuff Laurence Owen in a passionate clinch from the same room – and flung open the door.

What he saw inside made words die in his throat.  The embracing couple on this occasion were caught square in the act, and so enamoured that Snape instinctively averted his eyes.  But he cleared his throat – somewhat needlessly as the couple had looked up as soon as the door opened – in order to overcome his own shock.

Neville Longbottom slowly smiled.  “Severus,” he said.  “Always on duty.”

Diaphne flushed a deep red, but her eyes had that same lust-induced mist to them that Snape knew well.  She pulled free of Longbottom and tugged down her blouse.

Longbottom was in his normal attire – he hadn’t bothered with costume either, unless a black cloak and Death Eater mask could be counted - however neither of those items were visible.  Undeterred, Snape held forth his wand, pointed it at Longbottom, and said, “I saw…someone.  Move aside, Longbottom, I want to inspect this room.”

“Who did you see, Severus?” asked Longbottom.  “I’m sure if it was someone living, I’d know about it if they came in here.”

Snape stared at him.  _Someone living_.  What did he know? Longbottom held his gaze.

Without answering, Snape lit all the candle sconces in the room.  It was used primarily for storage these days: spare chairs, an old piano, boxes of old songsheets for the choir.  Nothing remarkable, nothing that even vaguely resembled a Death Eater mask.  Longbottom and Diaphne stood silently for a short while as he inspected the nooks and crannies, then Longbottom drawled, “Am I being accused of something?  If not, Diaphne and I will make our way -,”

“There was nowhere else he could have gone but here.  Who was he Longbottom?  Who did you help escape?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Snape went to the door to the balcony and yanked it open.  A cool, autumnal wind blew in, but of course, there was nobody out there.

“No-one came in here,” said Longbottom, his voice rising.  “And I don’t care for your tone.  You’re making a baseless allegation.  I used to be an Auror, Snape, don’t start playing cops and robbers with me, you don’t know what you’re up against.”

Diaphne watched wide-eyed as Snape banged the door to the balcony shut and glared at Longbottom.  “You don’t intimidate me.  You’re naught but a Herbology Professor now, and you’re in contravention of the teacher student relationship policy.”

“Professor -,” began Diaphne in a small voice and he shut her off with a look of utter contempt.

Longbottom snorted and raised disbelieving brows.  “Really?  That’s the crime?  Well handcuff me now.”

Snape slowly approached him until they were almost nose to nose.  With narrowed eyes, he examined him closely, scrutinised him, and Longbottom fell silent.  “I know what I saw.  And you have something to do with it.”

And with that, he stormed out the room again, headlong into a dismayed Sinistra.  “What’s going on?” she asked, but Snape merely scowled and marched away.

“Damn you, Severus,” she muttered through gritted teeth.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: please be aware that due to upcoming scenes of a more explicit sexual nature I am obliged to adjust the rating of this fic from K (teenage) to M (mature). I will be tagging accordingly before next posting. If you are a reader for whom such content would be considered inappropriate, you may need to check with an adult before continuing. I sincerely apologise if this causes inconvenience – that part of the plot has been emerging not planned. Such are the perils of WIPs.


	24. The Ouroboros

The day after the Halloween party, the middle and senior years were scheduled to visit Hogsmeade, and the juniors, once more scandalised by arrant injustice, were appeased with free time and Quidditch practice.  The weather was embittered with a scotch mist, and as the senior’s permission slips were sorted by Filch and Snape, the students rugged up warmly in their winter cloaks, hoods drawn over damp, flattened hair, their noses pinched with cold as they trudged off in small but noisy groups in the direction of the Broomsticks and Honeydukes.

McGonagall, Flitwick and Longbottom were on Hogsmeade duty and Snape had been granted a morning of leave.  He planned to see the Wicce, and had already sent the old sorceress a Patronus explaining his need for her Pensieve, so not long after the coast was clear, he had locked up his rooms and made a low key exit to the Winged Boar gates to Disapparate.  This journey to the infirmary was alone; he had not sought Diaphne’s company or her opinion: to him, in his estimation, that had sunk quite low.  Though she was performing highly in her seventh year studies so far, her association with Longbottom had tarnished his perception.

When he arrived, he was welcomed at the Infirmary entrance by a friendly young nurse who took his cloak and asked him to follow her – the Wicce was, apparently, suffering from gout and disinclined to walk much at present.  He was shown up to the Wicce’s consultation room, and when he went through he saw firstly the great, green-marble Pensive in the middle of the floor, and then the Wicce herself, at her desk, chin in hand, her feet in a bucket of forest-floor-smelling liquid and looking decidedly pissed off.

“Wicce…?” he said doubtfully.  “Perhaps I’ve come at a bad time?”

She waved him in and then pointed to the vessel before him.  “No, not a bad time for you Professor – as you can see I have arranged the Pensieve as requested.  I am inconvenienced, but not by you.”

He studied the bucket containing her feet.  “That is for gout?  The nurse mentioned -,”

“Yes.  Correct.”

“That…will help?”

Her lips thinned and she furrowed her brows.  “Are you questioning me, youngster?  I am over one hundred and twenty years in age - it’s this or I give up whisky.  You have a better idea perhaps?”

“No Wicce, my apologies.  But I am sorry you are feeling pain.”

“Everything aches these days, Professor,” she remarked wearily.  “I cure one, two more take its place.  I am afraid entropy has begun its ever-diminishing toll on my physical self.”

“Degeneration starts at birth.”

“Indeed.  Just much slower.” She looked up at him, an invitation to explain his presence.

Snape considered her a moment, and then said without preamble or hesitation, in fact, something close to relief: “Wicce, I am being haunted.”

There was no surprise or even significant interest in return.  “Ah.  For your sins. The lady?”

He nodded.  “Her death was violent, she suffered.  I didn’t save her.  She’s seeking my help.”

“Does she know she’s dead?”

“Not at first.  I have told her.”

The Wicce nodded slowly, breathed deeply through her nostrils then said quietly, “Tell me the manner and circumstances of her death.”

Snape did as asked.  And when he trailed to a finish, she said, “So if you had rashly attempted to save her, you both would have died.”

“Perhaps I should have done so anyway.”

“And leave the child orphaned?”

“Is he better to have had two dead but valiant parents, or contend with the knowledge that the living let the other die?”

She raised her brows and appeared to weigh up the odds in a philosophical fashion.  “That depends on the child.  If he can forgive you.  If she can forgive you.  Why would she forgive you?”

“I wouldn’t want her to die for my sake.”

“Did she not?” The Wicce paddled her feet in a contemplative fashion.

Snape frowned.  “Wicce?”

“She allowed herself to die so that you could maintain your cover,” explained the Wicce in grave tones.  “Do you not see this?  She could have revealed everything to Mister Riddle, if not to save herself, to take you with her.  But she didn’t.  She sacrificed herself, Professor, so that you continued to live.  Probably out of love.  Probably she was thinking about your son.”

Snape was unable to speak.  He stared at the Wicce in a cold sweat of realisation.  But she smiled, slightly wolfish owing to the condition of her teeth.  “Professor, I sense you have tortured yourself.  Nobody enters situations like that with a predetermined outcome – you both made decisions as best you could at the time.  I take it you didn’t foresee she about to become a casualty?”

“No, Wicce, I didn’t,” he answered, but he was reluctant, now, to be in any way exonerated, hardly even knowing the truth of the matter himself.

“Then help her,” she said simply.  “What does she seek?”

“She wanted to know where her body was…where she is buried.  But it’s lost…long gone.  And then she has given me a memory of hers.”

The Wicce’s interest was sparked at this.  “Ah.  At last we get to the Pensieve.  I assume you are wanting to view this memory?”

“Yes.  I…hoped you would be in attendance.  It contains a prophecy, and they aren’t my forte.”

The Wicce sighed heavily and stared at her feet in the bucket.  “The woman you loved, and then erased from your memory, died in your presence, now haunts you and she’s given you a memory and a prophecy.  Merlin’s beard, Professor Snape, what a complicated life you lead.”

Snape’s shoulders slumped.  “It’s always been a bit like that, Wicce.”

“So it would seem.  I have lived a long time, Professor, and seen all manner of things under the sun and the moon but you…You do appear to occasion very unlikely situations.”

He didn’t know what to say. He had returned to Hogwarts hoping for a quiet life in obscurity. 

“And now you have a son.  Don’t you think a period of stability would be good for him?”

“Wicce, I didn’t seek -,”

“Of course not, Professor,” she muttered, and huffed out of her chair, removing one dripping foot from the bucket and gingerly placing it down on some rags that lay beside it.  “Alright, I will accompany you.  I trust my insignificant part in things will ultimately send your wee boat into calmer waters.  How is Diaphne?”

“Busy,” he replied shortly.

“Ha ha, not with you, I take it.”

“Not with me, no.”

She chortled as she dried her feet.  “Her study?”

“Good.  Very good.”

“She’s a bright girl.  But stupid with it, if you get my drift.  To the Pensieve, lad.”

They stood side by side at the lip of the stone vessel, and Snape closed his eyes as he put his wand-tip to his temple to siphon out the vision he held there. 

The memory was dropped like a vapour of quicksilver into the swirling mists of the Pensieve, watched solemnly by Snape and the Wicce.  A glow came up from the vessel’s depths, they could almost see the shadows of events from the memory moving about within.  “That is a good sign,” observed the Wicce, as if taste-testing a dish.  “And in we go.”

They tipped forwards into the Pensieve and before long the scene materialised around them.  They were at the Staff Party in nineteen ninety-three, and once again Snape saw his colleagues dancing and enjoying themselves, repeating the same movements as his own memory, saying the same things.  But before him was Charity, seated at the little round table by herself, looking flushed and happy, glancing about – probably looking for him. 

“Here we are,” commented the Wicce, advancing towards Charity in order to examine her.  “We meet at last.  Papus be praised, young lady, you’ve caused a bit of trouble.” Baldly looking her up and down, she added: “I can see why, Professor, you wanted the memories back.”

At that moment in the memory, Trelawney arrived, florid and showing far too much white of the eyes.  Trelawney all but walked through the Wicce to take her place at the table next to Charity, and as the Wicce stepped to one side her expression became disdainful.  “And who is this?  Please don’t tell me she is a seer?”

“Indeed.  She is Professor Trelawney, Teacher of Divination,” said Snape drily.

“I expect her credibility suffers a great deal thanks to that ridiculous get-up.”

“She does, nevertheless, produce accurate prophecies.”

They watched in silence for a few moments and the Wicce muttered, “No…she is never reading her palm?  Merlin’s holey socks, is this going to take long Professor?”

Then the candle on the table blinked out, the lights in the room appeared to dim and Charity’s memory of the scene was that all went dark and quiet around her.  Snape and the Wicce became focussed on the exchange between the two women.  Trelawney was still holding Charity’s hand but her eyes had become fixed and myopic.  She said in a monotone: “You will die young…young and quickly.  Snakes.  There are snakes.  Snakes that love you and snakes that loathe you, that bring destruction.  Snakes bring your end but also your life.  They bring terrible misery but also immense joy.  They are hatred and love, the snake that eats its tail, it must bring about an end but you will bring about a beginning.  The one who could save you will desert you. You will fall afoul a great snake for speaking a truth.  Always speak the truth.  And your love will find a way.”

“When am I going to die?” Charity asked Trelawney, looking shocked and afraid and a bit sick.  But Trelawney had come out of her trance and responded dismissively, and then the memory closed to blackness.

Snape and the Wicce returned to the consultation room, where the Wicce immediately went to her desk and gathered up a quill and parchment even before sitting down.  As she scribbled down the words of the prophecy, Snape stood silently, recounting them in his own head in case she needed prompting.  When she’d finished the Wicce sat heavily, raising her bare feet, then read out her notes to Snape. “Is that what you remember?”

“Yes.  Almost exactly.”

The Wicce pulled open a drawer and withdrew a phial, which she handed to him.  “Take the memory out of the Pensieve and put it in there for safekeeping.  The Ministry may have a record in the Hall of Prophecies, but the way your Death Eater friends carried on in there I wouldn’t risk it, and Charity is no longer here to remove it anyway.  No, best to rely on this memory, Miss wanted you to have it.  But why?”

“Can you translate the prophecy Wicce?” asked Snape, using his wand to uplift the memory out of the Pensieve then feeding it into the phial.  “Many of the references to snakes are to my mind fairly obvious – clearly she means the Dark Lord, Nagini…me.”

“The one who could save you will desert you?”

“I assume so.”

“By deserting she may not mean at the moment of death, but earlier.  By removing your memories of her - in effect, your love for her, that which might have been your motive for saving her. Or at least trying to.”

“My purpose for removing the memories _was_ to save her!”

“Does she know that?” murmured the Wicce, but she was poring over her notes.  “Snakes bring your end but also your life…what does that mean?  Were snakes somehow at the beginning for her?”

“That’s Servius,” said Snape, sinking into the leather seat on the other side of the desk.  “A prophesy of her future child with me.”

The Wicce considered him and said, “Perhaps.” 

“’The snake that eats its tail,’” she read, turning back to her notes.  “…you will bring about a beginning...”

“’It must bring about an end,’” added Snape.  “The snake that eats its tail – there is a name for that symbol…”

The Wicce squinted at him thoughtfully, then without a word, rose, and from the bookcase behind her, located a heavy, leather-bound volume which she pulled from the shelf and brought down before her onto the desk.  It was about six inches wide and when she opened the heavy cover, the dragon-hide creaked, and dust speckled the air.  She began turning thick sections over of the fine, illustrated, hand-written pages, searching. And then something caused her to stop and put a finger to the page. “Ouroboros.  Greek. _O_ _ura_ means tail, _bora_ means food, from bibrōskō meaning "I eat".  The serpent that eats its own tail.”

She’d found the section she was looking for and turned the book for Snape to see.  There was an inked image of a scaly serpent wound into a sideways figure eight, its tail deep within its own mouth.

“I’ve seen them,” murmured Snape, scanning the text quickly.  “In Europe.  Strong associations with dark magic -,”

“In Alchemy,” agreed the Wicce. 

“A symbol for eternity -,”

“The everlasting rhythms of life,” she said.  “The cycle of life and death.”

Snape kept reading, then he said, “It says here there were connections with the Stone Triad, in particular the Philosopher’s Stone and the Resurrection Stone.  I still don’t understand why it would be in her prophecy.”

“The Ouroboros will bring about her end.  Perhaps it is the source of the peace she needs.”

“Where would there be one, one of these Ouroboros?”

The Wicce sat back and spent a moment rubbing her forehead, then said in low, shrewd tones, “Well I happen to know that your Albus Dumbledore had the Philosophers Stone, and I believe he had the Resurrection Stone -,”

Snape looked at her sharply. “What did you say?”

“I don’t know if he had the Origin Stone, but two out the Triad – he would have been a fool not to have an Ouroboros handy don’t you think?”

“You heard he had the _Resurrection Stone_?”

“It exists, Professor, all the Deathly Hallows do.  I had the Elder Wand here for a while,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What?  _How?_ ”

“Things come and go…” She arose again and pulled another, similarly-bound book down from her shelf.  Once placed on her desk before her, she retrieved her Mandrake-root wand from inside her robes and waved it above the cover.  Under her breath she mumbled an incantation – Snape listened closely and heard snatches of Latin, some phrases he recognised, such as “all seeing-all knowing” but most was unintelligible.  When she was quiet, the book opened and the pages within started to flip over, faster and faster until they were just a blur.  A warm, golden light began to glow from the pages, and when the book selected its place, and the pages lay flat, the golden light remained above it like a dome.  Inside the glow, Snape watched in amazement as letter-like inscriptions lifted from the page and swirled about within the sphere as if a snow-storm of black specks, and then with a flick of the Wicce’s wand, they fell back to the page and settled into sentences of Latin script, with mediaeval-style flourishes. 

“There,” announced the Wicce after reading.  “The stone was fashioned into a ring by Marvolo Gaunt…and, indeed, I thought I’d read it somewhere…last owned by Harry Potter.”

Snape stared at the book, the writing, and then back at the Wicce again.  “That’s the cursed ring -,”

“That would have claimed Albus Dumbledore.  Yes, I know.  He was not above foolishness.”

“I tried to stop the curse…”

“A potion won’t stop that, Professor,” chuckled the Wicce, squinting her eyes to read the text.  “It would seem he gave the Stone to Harry Potter.  Presumably to help defeat the wizard Riddle and all that.”

Snape sat back hard in his chair, eyes wide and inward as he connected dots in his head.  “That’s how he lived.  My message to him was that he had to die, only one could live…the Resurrection Stone brought him back?”

The Wicce shrugged and shook her head.  “I don’t know all the ins and outs of Harry Potter’s adventures, but it wouldn’t have been the Resurrection Stone that brought him back.  You can’t use it to bring yourself back from the dead; that has never been possible and rightly so.  It brings back your loved ones, in a manner, briefly.  For some reason Albus thought Master Potter would need to consult his dearly departed.”

Snape was shaking his head, dazed.  “Where is it now?  The Stone?  Did Potter keep it?”

The Wicce looked closely at the text.  “It says ‘returned’. No, Master Potter did not keep it.”

“Where?  Where is it returned to?”

“It doesn’t say, Professor, otherwise I would have told you,” she answered a little irritably.  “Probably a protected location.  It says it mustn’t be removed or disaster befalls the region and those who dare to desecrate.”

Snape sat forward again and looked hard at her big, leather-bound book.  “What is that?  How does it work?”

She laughed throatily. “Magic of course.  Anything not easily explained or accounted for, and in large part frustrating to use is, most often, the work of magic.”

“Yes, I assumed that but…how…did you know Dumbledore?”

“Oh yes.  Long, long ago.  He keeps popping up in this book so I’ve been following him.  And Tom Riddle.  That was one disturbed individual.  Grindewald.  Nicky Flamel.  Mother Malkin – she needed help.  Tamsin Blight.  Goodness, Merlin, I’ve lived a long time.”

Snape simply stared at her.

“So in answer to your question, Professor,” sighed the Wicce, closing both books, turning, and placing her feet one by one back into the bucket, “It would seem your lovely lady would like you to find the Ouroboros and, in so doing, the Resurrection Stone.  Young Potter left it unattended, but it found its way home in a serpent eating its own tail.”  She looked at him levelly. “But the wisest words in that prophecy are the last.  Heed them, Professor.  Always speak the truth, and your love shall find a way.”

 

* * *

 

In the dream, Servius was on his back and Amelie was once again astride him.  But this time he seemed to be wearing some kind of armor, he was encased in metal, and though he could feel the heat of her through the barrier, there was no way he could physically make contact.  She was laughing, and when he raised his hand to touch her, his hand was gloved in cold steel.  And yet the heat…why did it seem to create a pleasant pressure? Why did it feel so good?

When he jerked awake, he was sweating. The dream lingered, competing with his panicky realisation that there were lights on – morning - the other kids in his dorm were up and about and somehow he’d missed the alarm.  He moved to get up, and that was when his hand brushed a wet, sticky patch on his pyjama bottoms.

He pushed back the covers and stared at the dark, damp ring of proof of his own betrayal.  He was supposed to hate Amelie, but apparently other parts of his body never got the message.  In fact, those other parts were busy challenging his logic and preparing a very compelling argument to discard previous assumptions in favour of the evidence – all the evidence – that situations…sometimes changed.

Michael Tattinger stepped into the dorm to usher along the Slytherins.  “Up!  Up!  You’ve got five minutes.  Snape!  Why are you still in bed?” He came up to Servius’s bed and yanked back the covers, too quickly for Servius to react.

Tattinger clocked the circumstances in less than a second.  He paused to smile knowingly at the boy.  “Good dream?  Here.” He found a Slytherin dressing gown and threw it to Servius. “Hop into the shower, pronto.  Put those in the laundry.  Elves don’t notice a thing.  You there!” he glanced along the dorm.  “That is NOT uniform!”  And he moved off.

 

The dream threw Servius for six all day.  Classes were a blur and spent sneaking slightly affronted glances at Amelie as if she somehow knew.  She was oblivious and ignored him.  But he noticed that she seemed cuter in her glasses, and that she tucked stray hair behind her ears.  And that, all of a sudden, brainy girls were quite to his taste.

But it wasn’t until free time later in the afternoon that things came to a head.  William had Quidditch practice and so Servius decided to head off on a run alone, having missed his usual circuit with Oosthuizen in the morning.  He zipped up his sweater to the top and pulled over the hood as he stepped outside – the day was grey, damp and claggy with late Autumn decomposition.  He decided on the track alongside the Forbidden Forest, attracted to its knee-deep piles of rotting leaves, moss, ferns and toadstools.  Spiderwebs glistened all day.  Ravens perched in the upper branches and cawed, it seemed, for hours.

He set off at a steady pace.  The air was so misty it was rare to see more than a few dozen meters ahead and the lake was eerily still; metallic, impenetrable.  As Servius ran, his panting breaths sounded like roars and his footfalls thunderous, and, so absorbed, he at first didn’t notice he was being shadowed from above.  And it wasn’t until Amelie called his name that he came to a slow stop and looked up.

She was on a broom: her own, one she’d brought with her from Germany.  Slughorn had given her exemption to ride it in personal time, based on the assessment from Hooch that she was not only competent, but in fact Seeker material, born to ride.

“Where are you going?” asked Amelie, hovering slightly above him.

“What are you doing?”  He was startled, firstly by having a silent companion, and then startled again at the fact his companion was _her._

“I saw you head out.  So I thought I’d keep you company.” She lifted flying goggles onto her forehead and he saw she wore no glasses.

He stood facing her, catching his breath, distractedly admiring the lovely design and lines of her broom.  “I don’t need company.  I like running by myself.  Why aren’t you at Quidditch practice?”

“I didn’t sign up for Quidditch,” she replied with a slight pout, and tilted her head.  “Okay.  I thought you might like to ride with me.  We can go for a long ride.”

“What?  You mean out of school grounds?”

“Well, ja, I mean – who’s going to know?  And if we do get caught – then good, that will help us get expelled.”

Servius scowled uncomfortably at this.  But she had raised her brows at him, a test of his bravado.  He shrugged.  “Where do I sit?”

“Here.  On this seat.  But you’ll have to hold on to me.”  With a gloved hand, she patted the small passenger saddle located behind her own.

“No helmets?”

“I don’t need a helmet, Servius.  You’ll be fine.”  She lowered the broom to waist height and smiled at him, her toes dangling and scuffing the ground.  “Come on, hop on, it will be fun.”

Somewhat gingerly he swung onto the broom behind her.  He was worried about falling off or getting sick, but most of all about holding onto Amelie.  But she was quite relaxed and took his barely touching hands and brought them forward so that he was drawn into a tight hug.   “Put on these goggles, put your feet in those stirrups and hold on – I won’t go too fast.”

And they were off, quickly elevating and she headed in the direction of the lake.  A fog was rising and  she lifted clear of it to find sunlight.  Looking out, Servius could see for miles, the most he’d ever seen of the Highland’s grand terrain.   The distant peaks were now hidden by grey, forbidding clouds which he knew would hold snow.

Amelie dipped the broom to the left and he tightened his grip.  When she laughed slightly he could feel it, a little judder of her torso.  “Relax – I can’t breathe,” she shouted, the words whipping out of her mouth.

She had turned back towards the castle.  It was his first view of it in its entirety and he was staggered by its resplendence, the complexity of architecture in the towers, bridges and buttressed walls.  Just when he thought they might fly over the top of it, she turned again, in a south-easterly direction, headed for the Forbidden Forest. 

Her control was incredible.  She adeptly found the centre of gravity in each gentle turn so that they were upright again within moments.  He intuitively recognised her skill, and while he couldn’t bring himself to release the tension of his grip, he did start to relax his shoulders and allowed his own body to synchronise with the movement of the broom.  The less he thought about falling off, the more he thought about his position relative to this girl who’d featured in his dream only that morning, and the feel of her now within his arms.  Scorching blood rose to his neck and cheeks, almost enough to counteract the stinging cold he felt.

She lowered her broom and slowed a little as they approached the Forest.  “At this time of year we might see something,” she yelled as they travelled over the sections of leafless oaks, elms and birches.  “Look for unicorns, thestrals – maybe even a Hippogriff!”

Hagrid’s first-year classes had, so far, been rather tame.  There had certainly been magical creatures to learn about, but nothing that had really gotten Servius’ heart started.  So he searched keenly through the tree-tops, not sure what a thestral was and unaware he wouldn’t see one anyway.   After perhaps five minutes of flying, Amelie spotted a small family group of unicorns which she pointed out excitedly, and then a group of red deer hinds, running away from their shadow. 

And then they flew into a swarm that came from nowhere.

Thousands upon thousands of moths were rising into the air in a winding white funnel.  Amelie and Servius had flown straight through the middle of it, and the bodies of moths were caught in their hair, on their goggles and snagged on their jackets.  For several crazy seconds Servius almost released his grip to clear them from his face, and at the same time Amelie plummeted the broom towards the forest canopy, but she gained control and slowed, before turning the broom upwards and rising again. 

“What is that?” Amelie shouted, turning back the way they’d come, the column of moths now visible again.  Amelie directed the broom to circle around it while Servius stared in astonishment, never having seen anything like it. The gently rising funnel wound upwards from the ground like a tornado until, above them, the moths dissipated against the white, cloudy sky.  Servius looked to where the funnel originated, and noticed a large structure beneath the trees, angular, dark and made from stone, a little like the Aztec temples he’d seen on television. The moths seemed to be flying out from there.

“What’s that?” he asked.  He hadn’t known of any buildings within the Forest.

Amelie stared as well, lowering the broom to get a closer look.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “Mark it with your wand.”

“What?”

“Take a location mark.  With your wand.  Don’t you know how to do that?”

Anticipating his answer based on his puzzled silence, she withdrew her own wand, keeping the broom level with her left hand.  “Get your wand and copy me.  Point it at the…the thing, draw a little sort of tick, like that, and say _Pinpoint_.”

Servius copied her exactly, and when he felt his wand offer a small vibration he knew he’d done it right. 

“So wherever you are, next time you say _Go to Pinpoint_ , the wand will direct you to it like a compass.”

“Cool.”

She was smiling at him, and he found himself smiling in return, then glanced back down when he felt the tips of his ears burning.

It was then his attention was drawn to movement beneath the trees.  The moths had dwindled away, but on the forest floor, new creatures were assembling – large, dark shapes moving rapidly towards the stone structure from every direction.

Amelie watched with him, and Servius had time to ask, “What are they?” before something whizzed past them through the air, inches away.

“Did you see that?” Amelie asked, and then another thing zipped by with a faint whistle.

Below, the creatures had gathered around the structure.  Servius was strongly reminded of horses, their bulk, their nervous movement, and yet the way they behaved wasn’t quite right. 

Suddenly, the air around them was alive with zipping, whizzing objects and something thunked sharply into the rubber sole of Servius’s trainer.  A second later, Amelie yelled, “Centaurs!” and jerked the broom so intensely, Servius felt himself lose balance.

“Hang on!” she cried and the broom lurched forward.  Servius desperately clung to Amelie as they careened along the top of the forest, headed in the direction of the castle.  He ducked his face down, their speed too fast for comfort, just willing the ride to be over.  He couldn’t believe what she’d said:  it didn’t matter how many insanely improbable things he’d been confronted with since coming to Hogwarts, his shock was renewed with each one, and the idea of actual, living centaurs – who, if Amelie’s response was to be an indicator – needed to be treated with caution, rendered him dumbfounded enough that he almost didn’t notice her broom swoop alarmingly as the castle came into view.

She hurtled over the top of the Quidditch pitch, causing the Slytherin team to pause and point, then u-turned back and down to the clock tower courtyard.  With precision, she brought the broom to a halt and Servius tentatively relaxed his hold.

“You can get off now,” she said, grinning at him.  She was already swinging one leg over.

But Servius couldn’t put his left foot down: it was blocked, and then he remembered his trainer had been hit.  Balancing on his right, he lifted his foot and found an arrow-tip embedded into the rubber, it’s sharp, stone broadhead masterfully shaped and fitted to the shaft.  With a tug, he freed the arrow and said, “Check it out!”

Amelie came to his side and watched as he turned the arrow over.  “They were using bows,” he said.  “Whatever that building was in the forest, they were defending it.”

“The fletching,” she murmured, running her fingers along the fine feathery edge.  “Hippogriff, I’d say.  Nice souvenir.  Are you going to show your father?”

He glanced at her in surprise.  “Why would I do that?”

“So he knows you were in Centaur territory.  It’s not allowed.”

“Oh right,” he muttered, imagining the reaction if he did as she suggested.  “I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

On the last day of All Hallows Week, a Sunday, the Hufflepuff Senior Quidditch team met the Ravenclaws before the entire school, and from his seat among the Slytherins in the emerald stands, Snape saw with his own eyes what McGonagall had meant about the reinvented badgers.

The Ravenclaws – his second team, and Charity’s House – were utterly demolished.  He watched open-mouthed as black and yellow players buzzed like hornets from every direction, dazzling in their speed and accuracy, never missing a bludger, never missing a goal, leaving the rigid Ravenclaws stumbling as their game-plan began to unravel within the opening minutes.

In their stands, the Hufflepuffs chanted an anthem that would start low then build into a crescendo, explode with a massive, terrifying thundering of feet on the wooden platforms, and then slowly start again.  The only words were “Hufflepuff _LOVE_ ”.  They virtually silenced all the other supporters, most particularly the Ravenclaws, who began to huddle together miserably.

Deep in amongst the rather rabid looking badgers was Hentie Oosthuizen, her entire face painted yellow, a black and gold witchdoctors’ head-dress crowing the remainder of her costume, which appeared to be that of a great, woolly, yellow and black bear, but which Snape imagined was meant to be a badger.  She had a horn that she would blow intermittently, otherwise she chanted exuberantly, and bounced about with her neighbours whenever a point was scored.  One of these neighbours, Snape noticed with puzzled interest, was Hagrid, who’d always been a stalwart Gryffindor man.  The fond expression on his face, as Oosthuizen wrapped what she could of him in a frenzied hug, didn’t need a lot of interpretation.

Snape’s arm was gently nudged and he glanced over to find a mug of steaming coffee had been poured for him.  He took it, the heat stinging his frozen fingers. 

“Thank you,” he said to Sinistra, sitting close beside him, who grinned at him as she screwed the cap back on her flask.  “Is there something I should know about Hagrid and Oosthuizen?”

She raised her brows as she looked at the pair.  “That’s been brewing for years.  They swear they’re only friends, but they’re so similar.  When they’re not hiking or doing absurd things with pumpkins, they’re deep up the rear-end of some magical creature.  She’s as animal-mad as he is, and she brings back all sorts of exotica for him from Africa when she’s been home.”

“He’s three times her size!”

Sinistra gave him a sideways look.  “You don’t always get to pick who you fall in love with.”

Her soft, slightly rueful smile made his pulse quicken and he took a scalding sip of coffee for something to distract him. 

“Do you think the weather will hold?” she enquired presently, with a look to the sky.  “For the bonfires?”

“I predict drizzle.”

“But you’ll come anyway?”

The Slytherins had always done well at the Oidhche Draoidh bonfires, and he knew from Slughorn – now returned from holidays – that Servius had been enthusiastically involved in the team’s construction plans.  “Yes.  I’m planning on being there,” he said to Sinistra in a low voice and she glanced away, becoming instantly focussed on the game, and he frowned awkwardly, but neither moved where their bodies touched.

During the late afternoon, a drizzle did indeed embed itself, but undeterred, teams from each House began the heavy lifting of timber and wood into four enormous piles, bedecked with a straw man in House colours, on the lake edge ready for burning. 

At the touch of dusk, the bonfires were lit deep in their centres where the wood and kindling pile were still dry, and the students implemented their chosen strategy for keeping the fires alight the longest.  As the evening sank deeper into cold and dark, the staff and students gathered where the bonfire’s heat could be felt, and lit fireworks, drank hot toddies and nibbled Ettie cake.  Old Druid folk songs were clumsily voiced, McGonagall sometimes pausing the singers to teach them the words, and charms were cast into the fire for wishes or luck, inciting flames that blazed with rainbow colours.

Snape was keeping a close eye on Servius as he and Wait for William participated with the Slytherin team in feeding the fire.  There was skill in the bonfire’s framework, the type of wood employed, and stopping the structure from falling in on itself, particularly when the fires stuttered under persistent rain.  Beside him he felt Sinistra shiver despite her heavy winter cloak and he showed her how to create a shield with her wand to ward off the rain.  He felt a strong inclination to hug her close to him, something he would have done with Charity, but he didn’t know how.

When McGonagall declared the Slytherins winners again (even though the other Houses complained she’d done so too soon), the spectators and teams willingly applauded and hurried back up to the castle, leaving the final remnants of the bonfires to burn themselves out.

As they all went through the heavy entrance doors in a group, chatting and laughing and dripping onto the flagstone floor, Snape glanced at Sinistra, thinking this was the moment they went their separate ways for the evening, and found her staring at him, a panicked frown between her brows.

“Severus,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I, uh, I have…something…really important I need to discuss with you.”

Snape’s brows shot up.  “About Servius?”

“Yes,” she replied stiltedly, looking over his shoulder.  He followed her gaze to see McGonagall observing discreetly.  “Yes, about Servius.”

“What is it?”

Sinistra swallowed hard.  “Perhaps…in my office?”

“Well, uh, if you insist,” he said, confused now, and as Sinistra had already turned on her heel and was walking briskly to the Astronomy Tower, he followed.

The trip up the many stairs to her office always worked up the lungs and heart, but the colour in Sinistra’s cheeks seemed to glow with a different intensity as she admitted Snape into her office.  It was cosy within, the fire having been on all evening, and only a few candle sconces flickered.  She took off her cloak and she surprised him by suggesting he do the same.  “It’s soaking,” she commented lightly, waving her wand at them both for a drying charm.

“Is this actually about Servius?” Snape asked, detecting all urgency seemed to have disappeared.

Sinistra draped the cloaks over the back of her visitor’s chair.  “He’s amazing, don’t you think?”

He frowned.  “He has some points of merit…”

“Did he tell you he beat Amelie in a duel?  Hellmann was devastated.”

“I was aware he was permitted to stay in the club.”

Sinistra was wearing the same soft V-neck sweater she’d worn the other day.  He noticed her chest seemed to rise and fall rather profoundly and she took a step towards him.

“You’re right - I haven’t brought you here to talk about Servius,” she said, holding his gaze, her dark eyes shining.  Snape suddenly became alert to what was happening and competing impulses jumped up within him; but while they battled he was frozen, conscious of her approaching ever nearer, his fight or flight instincts awake to every detail of her.

“Severus…hear me out, just let me speak,” she murmured, and he barely inclined his head.  “I am…tired…of pretending…that we are nothing more than platonic.  I mean, you know how I feel, how I’ve felt for years.  And now – well now there’s no reason…don’t you think?”

The last words appealed for him to make the moment easier, relieve her of the excruciating awkwardness she felt.  He was turning over her words in his head.  Had he been pretending?  He knew she’d entered his inner sanctum, he knew he’d lightly flirted with her once or twice, and he’d been distantly aware of signals…but he didn’t think he’d actually cleared the decks emotionally and given her centre stage.  It was Charity that still held that, he was still hopelessly in love with Charity.

She read his hesitation, very accurately as it turned out.  “I’m not trying to take her place,” said Sinistra, standing before him now. “I know others have your heart…and I accept that…but we’re not getting any younger and…Severus, I’m still alive!”

Snape looked down at her and saw the heat in her eyes.  “It’s been eight years,” she said in almost a whisper.  “She wouldn’t expect you to…she’d want you to be happy.”

“It doesn’t feel like eight years,” he said, the dryness in his mouth making the words gruff.  “I feel it like it was yesterday.”

“That’s because of the memories,” she said.  “But they are still only that.  And nothing can take them from you.”

And then she leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth.  Snape closed his eyes and for a moment all he knew in the world was her lips – soft, sweet and lingering.  Vaguely he was aware of her arms coming up around his neck, her body pressing against him, and when he heard a faint groan emanate from his own throat, his head began to spin.

Her kissing became more insistent, and with blood pounding in his ears, he matched it, his body responding while his brain scrambled to catch up.  She uttered a slightly delirious moan and tangled her fingers in his damp hair and unexpectedly, desire flared, like one of the charms in the fire, setting every nerve alight…and lust engulfed him.

His arms came around her and crushed her to him and she gasped, and he could feel her lithe, electrified body beneath his hands, her leg lifting to encircle his thigh, bringing her pelvis closer to his.  He slipped his hands up beneath the jumper she wore - flimsy, he realised, no wonder she’d been cold - and he felt her smooth skin, so tender so warm, and then slid upwards to find her breasts, still captive in her lacy bra, but it was enough for her to issue another small moan. 

She broke away in a frantic hurry to wrench off her top and he watched the flurry of movement as if in a trance, barely time to register before she’d thrown herself back up against him and sought out his mouth again.  It had been enough to give oxygen to tiny rational voices in his head that clamoured for him to stop, but as his fingers traced their way up the bare skin of her back, lust blinded him once more.

Even Potion Masters are confounded by bra clasps in the heat of passion, and Sinistra nimbly helped him remove this last item so that soon he could take both full breasts in his hands and indulge in their luscious pliancy, her nipples hard beneath his touch.  He bent his head to taste them and she arched back a little.  “Ohhh, Severus,” she breathed.

That did it.  Her voice; his trance was popped like a bubble.  Dreadful reality cracked the dam wall and crashed into his mind, and he stopped what he was doing, stopped dramatically and silently, and then taking her upper arms in either hand he gently eased her back from him.

“What?” she muttered, realising the wonderful, headlong train she’d just been riding seemed to have come abruptly derailed.  “What’s going on?”

He bent to find her discarded top which he passed to her with his eyes averted.  “I’m so sorry, Aurora,” he said.  “I – I lost control.”

“No, no wait, you don’t -,”

Her eyes wide with dismay, she covered herself anyway, having the wherewithal to realise that the man now standing in her office was not the same one as ten seconds earlier. 

“I am sorry if I took advantage -,” he murmured, now very upright and straight, but slightly turned from her. 

“You don’t need to apologise,” she finished lamely.  “We’re all grown-ups here.”

He waited one long moment, then stiffly turned to her door.  “I’ll see myself out.”

“Good night Severus,” she said, voice catching, and the door gently clicked shut behind him.

* * *

 

   
The foyer of the Ministry of Magic had, like Malfoy Manor, enjoyed a makeover since Snape had last seen it.  Post war, the determined Shacklebolt insisted on a mood of lightness, hope, unity and fortitude, ensuring all décor suitably reflected this, and every detail depicting pureblood supremacy was expunged.   A Kew Gardens-like conservatory had been erected, light and heat supplied and controlled with magic, certainly enough that the exceptional collection of botanical species – both otherworldly and prosaic – knew no different from a life in the wild, and grew happily and profusely.

Snape noticed all this as he crossed the foyer that morning, perfectly on time for his meeting with Candace Peacock.  He registered his wand, collected his visitor identification, and then took his place in the queue of Ministry personnel shuffling their way through the gate on their way to start work.  Had he adopted the eyes-down, pre-work attitude of his bureaucratic companions, Snape might not have noticed the back of the head of the man in front of him: a memorable shock of irrepressible black hair that would not stay flat.

Potter.

He cleared his throat and fought down a smile.  “Late again, Potter?” he said in his deepest, most scathing teacher voice, and was instantly rewarded with an alarmed, bespectacled pair of green eyes.

Recognition was immediate, and Potter smiled widely.  “Professor Snape!  What are you doing here?”

“Fairly obviously, I would have thought: a meeting.  What are you doing here?”

Potter laughed a little drily.  “I ask myself that every day.  How are you?”

“Much of a muchness.  Buffeted but upright.  And you?”

They passed together through the gate bottleneck and around them workers and visitors marched towards the lifts and various points of business.  Potter stopped, however, near a pretty, tinkling fountain, to extend his hand to Snape, who shook it.

“Okay,” said Potter, poorly concealing a deep sigh in the word.  “I’m okay.”

Snape scanned the face he knew so well.  Deep shadows beneath the eyes were not obscured by the frame of glasses, a weariness seemed to weigh heavily on him.  Potter’s suit was full of creases and his tie was slightly askew.

“Management can be hard,” said Snape, dispensing with pleasantries.  He knew Potter too well for small talk, and didn’t do it well anyway.

Potter faltered a second, then sensed an opening that didn’t need much encouragement.  “It’s partly the job and…partly, if I’m honest, having kids is just…can I be honest?”

“Uh…by all means -,”

“I haven’t slept properly in weeks.  Actually, months.  I think I’m going slightly barmy.  Albus is…he has some issues and…it’s so much harder with two.  I mean, James still has needs.”

“Oh,” said Snape.

Potter smiled again, trying to inject some levity but it just looked a bit crazed.  “Poor Ginny!” he laughed grimly. “She’s coping, I mean she really is but Albus isn’t a good feeder, see, so Ginny has…you know…” Potter lifted his hand to where a breast would otherwise be.  “They really hurt.”

Snape’s eyes widened a little, trying hard not to remember a thirteen-year-old Ginny Weasely in her Quidditch uniform.

“And that’s making Ginny mad a lot, and you know, you go home from a day in the Auror office, which, as I expect you’ll know, isn’t a barrel of laughs, and walk into…like I said, I’m being honest…well it’s chaos.”

“I see...”

Potter paused, seeming to register Snape’s polite deference, and laughed again.  “No, I expect you don’t see at all, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking -,”

“It’s quite alright…”

“It’s weird, isn’t it,” said Potter, shaking his head in mild disbelief.  “It’s like…I dunno…my shrink says I’m always looking for father figures.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t worry, she’s not a Muggle shrink.  But…I have talked about you.”

Snape frowned.

“It’s okay, she says that I had a displaced desire to please you and that when Dumbledore… died it was my terror of abandonment again that made me react so strongly.  According to her, it was your approval that I sought more than anyone!  Huh!  I didn’t know that.”

Snape stared at him.  Then he glanced quickly at the oblivious people around them and said, “Do you think this is something that should be discussed here?”

Potter looked about him as well, but it wasn’t with surprise to find himself in the lift lobby of the Ministry, it was with a tight-lipped dispiritedness.  “It’s not like I was planning on talking to you, Professor.” He grinned, but it was forced.  “There you go again, making me feel like an idiot.”

“I’m not trying to -,”

“It’s okay, I don’t know what I’m saying half the time, it’s the tiredness.”

“That I can understand.  Have you got something you can give the children?”

Potter frowned quizzically.  “What do you mean?”

“Some _Dreamless Sleep_.  Why don’t you give them some of that?”

Potter’s brows shot up. “Because they’re little.  You can’t give them potions.”

It was Snape’s turn to feel slightly humiliated.  “Oh.  Ah -.”

“How is…sorry, I’ve forgotten his name -.”

“Servius.”

“Yeah, Servius.  Nice kid.  Easier when they’re eleven I expect.”

Snape gave him a dead stare.  “Potter, I would have thought you above anyone would know that being eleven doesn’t make you easier.”

Potter chuckled at that.  “Seriously?  You expect eleven-year-old boys to behave in a place like Hogwarts?  Maybe in Hufflepuff...”

“Don’t underestimate Hufflepuff,” muttered Snape, but he was smiling.

Potter held his gaze for a moment, something about his smile was wistful, and then he said, “Hey, I better go, I’ll be late -,”

Snape nodded, “I as well.  But there is one thing I want to ask you before you go.”

Potter cocked his head slightly, puzzled.

“The Resurrection Stone.”

Potter’s eyes seemed to go through several lens changes.  They transitioned from vague, polite interest into focussed and wary.  “What about it?”

“I need to know where it is.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed and zeroed in on him.  “Yes you do.”

“No.  No I don’t.  I don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re a hopeless liar, Potter.   All Gryffindors are.”

And suddenly, they were back in the dungeon classroom.  All the castles-in-the-clouds of mature acceptance and forgiveness they had built up over the years dissipated like so much fog under the sun.  Snape felt like he’d just shed fifteen years and Potter looked about the same.

“Are you going to use _Legilimens_ on me, sir?  Because otherwise I’m due at work.”

“How did Dumbledore give it to you?”

The second it took for Potter to think about the snitch was enough for Snape.  “Did you put it back?  Is it somewhere in the Head’s Office?  I know you are addled by offspring but try and think.”

Potter glanced around him.  Some employees getting into the lifts were taking a cursory interest, but for the most part they were now alone.

“What do you want with the Resurrection Stone, sir?  Hoping to bring back the old gang?”

Potter’s chin lifted defiantly, just the way it used to, and taken aback by the question, Snape stared.  He’d almost missed this sparring, Potter had almost been a worthy opponent.

He straightened.  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“There’s a reason snakes don’t sleep straight.”

At this, a chuckle rumbled up from a dusty old place in Snape.  “Ha.  That’s a good one.  If you must know, and – given this is you we are talking about so you almost certainly must - I have no personal interest in the Stone at all, I’m not trying to bring anyone back, I am…I am attempting to help someone go home.  The Stone has connections to something in a prophecy.  If I can find it, I can figure it out.”

Potter studied his face, and Snape knew that he was somewhat frustrated by the sincerity he found there.  He sighed and his shoulders slumped.  They didn’t have far to go.  “Sounds just like the sort of thing that would be happening at Hogwarts.”

“And your chum Neville Longbottom claims to have lost something.  Something he thinks Professor Trelawney might know the whereabouts of -,”

Snape paused, because Potter’s expression became instantly alarmed.  “Ne-Neville?”

“I don’t know many other Neville’s.”

Potter was actually chewing his bottom lip.  “Did you tell him about the Resurrection Stone?” Snape asked him, voice dropping low.  “Did you swap secrets over your butterbeers?  What could a liability like Longbottom want with a stone like that?”

“If he found it, he’d bring it straight to me,” Potter answered, eyes wide.  “To keep it would be a criminal act. He couldn’t do that.”

“Maybe he thinks its finders’ keepers.  As it happens, the Stone has been returned to its rightful place.  Did you do that, or someone else?  Where did you put it, Potter?”

“To it’s rightful place?” echoed Potter and Snape’s brow arched.

“So you didn’t do that, then.  Someone found it from wherever you left it and returned it.  And we know that wasn’t Longbottom.  Or Trelawney.”  He drew a deep breath.  “How long have you got, because there’s around fifteen staff at Hogwarts and I know I don’t have all day.”

At that moment there was a clanging of lift doors being opened and the sound of heels clipping on tile coming briskly towards them.  Both Snape and Potter looked over as Candace Peacock approached, her hand extended.

“Professor, so sorry to keep you waiting, lovely to see you again.  Morning Harry!”

“Morning Candace,” replied Potter, his face drained.  “I’ve just been catching up.  I’ll leave you to your meeting, shall I?”

“Merlin Harry, you might like to get yourself a strong coffee!” remarked Peacock.  “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

Potter smiled wanly, and then with a last, penetrating glance at Snape, he wandered off to the lifts.

Peacock then turned her wide smile to Snape.  As always, she was smartly dressed in MoM uniform and her hair was pulled into a controlled knot.  If she carried her wand with her, Snape had no idea where it would be.  “How is Servius?” she enquired.

“Physically well.  The school life is a bit of an adjustment for him.”

“I expect that takes a few months for all first-year Muggle-raised.  Shall we take a stroll through the Conservatory?  It’s lovely and warm in there.”

Snape was agreeable and Peacock led them through to the glass and steel doors which opened into a magnificent heated structure of glass panes mosaiced together like a dome.  Narrow, tiled paths meandered through vibrant, profuse beds of shrubs, trees and potted plants of every possible description, so dense it was necessary to occasionally move fronds and leaves aside that had fallen across the path.  Butterflies, bees and tiny jewel-like birds flitted about, and once or twice, Snape’s eye caught a second of scuttling in the undergrowth, but he never ascertained the owner.

“Was it about Servius that you wanted to see me?” asked Peacock as they strolled.

“No, his friend in fact.  But just before we move on, I take it there’s been no change of plans regarding the Burbage’s Christmas arrangements?  Servius has mentioned several times a wish to go home, and they neglected to send him anything for his birthday.”

Peacock looked a little dismayed.  “I haven’t heard anything new, Professor.  I’ll make enquiries.  I do know the Burbage’s had planned on doing some travelling once Servius started school…it’s possible they didn’t know how to reach him from wherever they were.”

“It might bring him some comfort to know he wasn’t forgotten entirely.”

“Did you forget his birthday?” Peacock asked quietly.

“I did,” Snape admitted. “I only realised thanks to his friend, William Huan, about whom I’ve come to see you.”

“William Huan?” repeated Peacock, clearly browsing her mental files.  “I don’t think I know a William…”

“I promised a colleague at Hogwarts I’d bring it to the Ministry.  Huan reports that his father is a Muggle geneticist who has earned a position on the Human Genome Project, and has apparently flown to America with his discovery.”

“Which is?”

“As Charity coins it, the M-Chromosome.  More commonly known as the Magic gene.”

Peacock paused to stare at Snape.  “Huan? Did you say Huan? Chinese?”

Snape nodded drawing his brows together. 

“It couldn’t be,” she muttered, staring at nothing, gathering information in her head.  “Dr Ditton had an assistant, Tao Huan – since Dr Ditton retired -,”

“The man in the baseball cap,” murmured Snape, recalling the Asian individual outside Holly’s school who’d tried to grab the little girl, the man he’d _obliviated_.

Peacock shook her head slightly.  “I – I don’t know for sure, I mean, Huan is a common Chinese name.”

“He nicknamed the boy Pinocchio – he wanted to bring the boy to life.  If the child is to be believed, Huan has somehow genetically…created, _manufactured_ him -,”

“Engineered,” said Peacock shortly.  “Then Huan is ahead of his time.  The Muggles have been artificially impregnating animals and mothers for years.  But it’s still the luck of nature’s draw what offspring you get -,”

Snape shook his head.  “William said that his father wanted a boy.  A _magic_ boy.”

“Then he’d somehow altered the genes before or during the embryonic stage…”  She faltered and then suddenly seemed to come up for air.  “If any of this is true, Professor Snape.  It seems rather far-fetched don’t you think?”

Snape considered her for a minute then cleared his throat.  “Indeed.  If I had the technology to engineer a child, I’m not sure I’d draw up blueprints for William Huan.”

Peacock laughed.  “Who’s Pinocchio?”

“A Muggle fairy-tale,” said Snape dismissively.  “Ironically, Pinocchio’s nose grows long if he lies.  Shall I check Master Huan’s?”

“That might be an idea, Professor.  We all know what the imaginations of eleven-year-olds can be like.  Why don’t you leave this with me and I’ll run a background check on Tao Huan, see what he’s been up to since Dr Ditton retired.”  She gave a resigned smile and sighed.  “I’ll never be able to close that file, will I?”


	25. The Means of Escape

 

The door to the archive always creaked on opening; the slower the swing, the more it complained.  In hindsight, it was a detail that surprised Snape, remembering the creak, but as he entered it didn't really register with him.  He was much more aware of the room being in darkness.  Not just unlit, but deep, dense, an almost molasses-like pitch.   The archive had never known sunlight and its natural condition was to be cold and black; still…this dark felt solid.  He lit his wand. 

Shining it before him, the beam fell on typical aspects of the room.  The table, shelves, the cupboards and jumble of antiquated treasures.  Although unnerved, there was nothing he could see that would give him cause for it.  It was just the archive…in darkness.

“Charity?” he said, but the word didn’t seem to come out of his mouth quite right.  He took a few steps forward into the room.  Now that he’d said her name out loud, it occurred to him why he was here; before it had been uncertain.  But of course, he was here for Charity.  This was where she lived now.

“Are you here?” he croaked and tried hard to moisten his mouth and swallow.  He could sense he had goosebumps, that his eyes were wide and his breathing shallow.  Something rattled in a distant corner and he swung the beam from his wand towards it… but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“My love?”

His enquiry was losing focus and purpose.  He wasn’t alone in the room, all his instincts told him that, but it had none of the feeling he’d had on previous visits.  There was no warmth, no welcome, no pleasure in being here.

He took a step forward and felt his boot land on an irregular, slightly spongy surface.  Instantly he pointed his wandlight to the floor, and what he saw made his breath catch and his heart chill.  At first, he thought they were scraps of paper, but in the still air of the archive, some were fluttering.  When he looked closer he realised they were moths.  Dead and dying moths, pale, ash-coloured, and, as he lifted the beam of his wand, he saw they were carpeting the entire floor in drifts, like snow.

He gagged and fear closed around him, as though a cloak, and lead-legged he walked forward into the room.  His mind screamed at him to leave, but something else propelled him forward, treading on the bodies of moths.  “Charity?”

“Here,” he heard her say.  “Severus?  Please?”

He instantly swung his wand in the direction of her voice and a cry caught in his throat.  Suddenly, inches away from him was her body, suspended by invisible bonds from the ceiling, upside down.  Her clothes were damp, glistening and compressed to her torso as though glued; something liquid and acidic dripped from them.  Her hair hung, as it had in Malfoy Manor, streaked with blood.  And frozen as he was, he watched as she rotated around, as she must inevitably, and he knew it would be bad even before he saw her face.  Heart pounding, he watched and waited what felt like years as her body spun towards him. 

A skull.  Her face was no more than a skull, faintly stained and tea-coloured as though her flesh had only recently stripped, and her hair was drifting like pale seaweed.  But he heard her voice as her skull came to face him.  “Severus,” it said.  “….please….”

And from one of the dismal holes that were her eye sockets came a moth, it climbed out, gripping the bone, its wings beating so fast they blurred, but it didn’t fly, it fell, it dropped to the floor and was still.

And Snape’s world turned black.

His own strangled cry woke him.  He was in his bed, the nightmare like a brand on his brain and he automatically sought out his wand.  Seconds later the nearby sconces were lit, and he sat up, breathing hard, absorbing the normality of everything around him.  A nightmare, nothing but a nightmare.  And yet he also knew it wasn’t.  Only that evening, in the library, he’d researched ghosts and discovered that some, some like Charity, became abhuman if they failed to find their way.  Hell, or some equivalent, steadily came for them, claimed their restive souls, made their limbo torture and they degenerated into grotesque versions of themselves, forever to haunt and punish those they blamed.  When he'd read this, Snape had been both startled and appalled, quickly shutting the handwritten volume that Madam Pince had found for him.  He left it on the study hall table and swiftly exited the library, pushing the idea out of his head.  Charity wouldn’t be like that.  That would never happen to Charity, she was a scientist.  But she was also a witch.

 

* * *

 

It was a Saturday, and Snape and Servius Apparated outside an empty, broken down barn which was, as intended, devoid of Muggle eyes.  Servius immediately bent and dry-retched, and Snape patted his back detachedly.  “It will get easier.  From Hogwarts to Devon is a long trip for a first time Apparation, by the time you come to learn it for yourself you’ll know what to expect.”

Servius looked at him as if he were mad.

Snape tugged straight the boy’s Slytherin school tie. “Now smarten up, we’re late, start walking.”

“Why do I even have to come?” grumbled Servius.  “I don’t know them.  I don’t care _what_ they name their baby.”

They marched through the pretty, village streets of Chudley in the direction of where Snape vaguely recalled the Church to be.  He was looking for the steeple: there weren’t many villages left where the Church was still the tallest building.  Small and Wizarding, Chudley was in reasonable proximity to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, and where the Malfoy’s were still counted amongst the congregation.  It had been some years since Snape had set foot in a Church, and it was classic Malfoy that they could pretend to espouse Christian virtues while hiding their Dark Marks beneath their white sleeves and appropriate the venue for networking and showboating.  But everybody deserved the chance to move on.  He doubted a Church of England God would smite them when they entered the narthex.

“You were invited.  Some things just have to be got through, Servius.”

“But this is the first sunny day we’ve had in weeks!  I was going to play footy!”

“There’ll be food.”

Servius lapsed into barely appeased silence, and before long they had snuck into the back of the Church with a gathering of other guests and kept a low profile as the Christening service ensued.

Afterwards, guests were invited to linger in the Church grounds and enjoy some Malfoy hospitality, with a marquee erected for a buffet, a special nursery area set up for baby Scorpio and a dressed table on which gifts could be placed.  Snape realised he hadn’t brought a present for Scorpio or the parents, having spent far more time contemplating how he could avoid the occasion rather than how he should attend it.  So he skirted the gift table and instead decided to get formalities out of the way by queuing up with Servius to congratulate the parents, grandparents, Godparents and admire the child.

Malfoy was wearing a dove-grey morning suit, his platinum hair drawn back with a bow, and Narcissa wore a silk, sheath dress with bell sleeves and matching pillbox hat, and together they effortlessly outclassed everyone including the parents.  When Snape approached, Malfoy grinned broadly and leaned forward to pump his hand.  "Severus!  Delighted!  I'll be honest, I didn't expect to see you, I predicted you'd be busy, so we're feeling particularly honoured you could make it."  He glanced at Snape's side, still smiling.  “And this must be the young man we’ve heard so much about?”

Snape introduced Servius.  Narcissa watched like a hawk, carefully scanning Servius from the tip of his obstinate cowlick to the toes of his badly polished boots, and in conclusion turned to Snape and said with a cool smile: “He’s delightful.  So handsome.  And I suspect he’ll be tall with it.”

Servius stared hard at the ground and Snape rather awkwardly said deferential things which Narcissa completely ignored and instead ushered them towards Draco and Astoria.  “Dray-dray, darling, come and say hello to Severus and Servius.”

It was the first time Snape had laid eyes on Draco in nearly nine years.  During the service his view had been blocked and all he’d been able to see was a distant, besuited figure with the iconic white hair.  Close up, he found himself re-experiencing his first meeting with Potter, except the shock was harder.  This was partly because Snape’s memory refused to age Draco more than fourteen, even when Draco had _been_ seventeen.  And partly because Draco looked older than twenty-six.  He’d been endearing to look at as a boy, but his naturally lean physique was tending more to gaunt, his cheekbones were prominent, his grey eyes slightly hollowed, and he now sported an obvious scar across his brow and down his left temple.  He was scarcely able to raise a smile when he came forward with his hand extended.

“Professor,” said Draco, shaking Snape’s hand briefly and letting it drop.  “Father told me you survived and were back at Hogwarts.  I can’t believe it.  You must have a hell of a story.”

“Congratulations, Draco,” said Snape, forcing himself to be normal.  “Firstly on marrying and now you’re a father too.  I can hardly believe it either.” 

“Has it been eight, nine years?”

“Nearly nine.”

Draco’s head tilted a little, the smile faded and there was the faintest of frowns between his brows.  “Feels like a lifetime.  Thank you for coming.”

Snape felt a slightly perturbed frown of his own.  He sensed a remoteness in Draco.  Dislike was too strong, but distrust might have been closer to the mark. 

Draco turned to Servius, who was openly staring.  “And this must be your son?  Could have knocked me over with a feather, sir.  Is it Servius?”

Servius nodded.

“Got your Slytherin tie on.  I hope you’re a proud serpent?”

“Yes.”

“Good at Quidditch?”

“No, sir.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up at this. “How come?”

Servius’s cheeks turned scarlet and Draco glanced at Snape.  Snape lifted one shoulder.  “Early days.”  Behind them, people were still queueing, so Snape dropped a hand on Servius’s shoulder and edged him forward a little.  “We’ll catch up later, Draco, you’ve many guests.  Your lovely mother has invited us to the Manor for Christmas, let’s talk properly then.”

“Of course,” said Draco, and lifted his chin in that way that never changed.  But only a trace of a smile could be seen.

After paying brief respects to the pale, exhausted-looking Astoria (Snape had never much cared for her.  She’d always come across rather glum and enervated, even as a teenager, a shadow to her sister Daphne who’d Snape would have thought a more likely match), and nodding politely at the ornately dressed, near-bald baby Scorpio, Snape wandered off with Servius to pick at the smorgasbord in the marquee.  He’d already slapped Servius's thieving fingers about five times when Malfoy approached him, a flute of champagne in hand.

“Severus!  How are things at Hogwarts now term’s in full swing?  Good roll this year?”

“Yes.  Good headcount, over three hundred.  Seventy-seven Slytherins.”

“Ah, excellent.  And I see the Sorting Hat made the best possible choice for Servius.”  Malfoy once more regarded the boy, narrowing his eyes slightly.  “Merlin’s beard, Severus, there’s no question he’s yours.”

Servius appeared startled at this and Snape muttered “I didn’t doubt it for a minute,” but he faltered when he remembered his own insistence on a birth certificate.

“How do you like being a wizard?” Malfoy asked Servius, tapping him lightly on the shoulder with his walking stick.  Evidently, he’d asked Ollivander to remake his Snake’s Head heirloom.

Servius held Malfoy's eyes quite boldly and then shrugged.  "S'alright.  But I'm not staying at Hogwarts."

Snape scowled and Malfoy was both surprised and baffled.  “No?  Where are you going then?”

“I’m going back to my old school.  My Ma and Pa said I should try Hogwarts for a year and if I don’t like it then I can go home.”

“You’d rather be a Muggle?” said Malfoy, astonished.

“What’s wrong with Muggles?”

“Servius, enough,” said Snape quickly.  “Go and…you can have dessert now.”

Servius ambled off to a far trestle table and Malfoy turned to Snape with a laugh.  “Aren’t they charming at that age?”

“He’s having some difficulty…adjusting.”

“Ah.  Just wait till he wins at Quidditch and he’ll forget there was ever a life before Hogwarts,” said Malfoy smoothly.

Snape moved in a little closer to speak in muted tones.  “Speaking of which, I have purchased a broom for him for Christmas and I’m having it sent directly to the Manor.  I hope that won’t inconvenience you.  Could you put it away for me?”

“Certainly, no trouble at all,” said Malfoy with an approving nod.  “The latest from Diagon I’m assuming?”

“Well…I’m not much of an expert on brooms, but I’m assured it’s a popular model and it certainly wasn’t cheap.  Do you think perhaps Draco could give him some tips?”

“I’ll put him up to it, don’t worry about a thing.  I’ll have the elves clear up the circuit on the grounds.  What’s his position?  Don’t tell me – Seeker of course!”

“Uh, no…”

Malfoy waited politely a moment, but when Snape wasn’t forthcoming he murmured, “Of course, no trouble at all.”

They took a few steps away from the worst of the crowd and Snape said, “One other small matter, if I could have a minute.”

“By all means!”

“Did any…do you know if any of the old…contingent kept their masks?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows raised and then he looked puzzled.  “Their DE masks you mean?  Why on earth?”

“Just wondering.  Perhaps as…souvenirs?”

“Every one that got handed in was destroyed, Severus.  Rather a pity.  They were very good quality.  Illegal to have one now, of course.”

“Does anybody make duplicates?”

“Are you after one for yourself?”

“No.  Lucius, no I am not interested in having a mask again.  I thought I saw one, but it must have been a copy.”

Malfoy considered him a moment, then glanced about to ensure they were out of earshot.  “I have only seen one of the old rank-and-file in the past year.  He didn’t have a mask that I recall.”

“Who was it?”

Malfoy laughed heartily.  “Dear man, you’re a Professor now, you can hang up your super-sleuth hat.”

Snape studied him a moment while a slideshow of operatives skimmed through his mind’s eye, trying to think who was neither dead nor in Azkaban.  As the Death Eater downfall had happened largely after Snape had been evacuated, he’d pieced together the rollcall from news reports and scant conversations with escaped operatives he’d later go on to capture.  As far as he could gather – and remember – there were only three outstanding, the ones who’d eluded him after discovering he was a Dumbledore agent.

“Never mind.  I saw it in a novelty shop in Diagon Alley.  Must have been a bad-taste mock-up.”

“Doubtless.  Now come back and enjoy some champagne.”

Not long later, Snape and Servius walked away from the Church back to where they’d Apparated.  They’d put in a good appearance, and Servius had started to get agitated and bored so Snape was glad to make his excuses.

They walked in silence down the quaint country lane beneath a row of chestnut trees, their prickly cases littered the path.  Snape was deep in thought, when unexpectedly Servius said, “Professor?”

“Dad.  Yes?”

“Did you know that man very well?”

“Which man?”

“The one that was the father of the baby.”

“Draco.  Yes, I knew him well.  I’ve known him since he was a baby himself.”

“Oh.   What year did he start Hogwarts?”

“Nineteen Ninety-One, something like that.  Why?”

"Oh, nothing.  It's not right anyway."

“What isn’t right?”

“The dates.  It’s just a heard about a kid at Hogwarts who had like a tattoo in exactly the same place as…as Draco.”

Snape looked at Servius sharply.  “What tattoo?”

“The one on his wrist.  You know, it’s like a skull and a snake or something.”

Snape was now staring at him.   “You saw that? Uh, you saw Draco had a, um, tattoo?”

“Yeah,” said Servius nonchalantly, and kicked up a pile of leaves.  “He rolled up his sleeves.  Probably didn’t want to get baby shit on them.”

“And you heard about a student at Hogwarts that had the same one?”

“I don’t know if it was the same tattoo.  It was just in the same place."

“But you don’t think it was Draco?”

“No…” Servius started to look a little reserved.  “It was a student before Draco was there.”

Snape halted and put his hands on his hips, staring laser like at the boy.  “What exactly did you hear and who told you?”

“What I told you!” retorted Servius heatedly. “Just that there was some kid who went to Hogwarts like a million years ago who had a tattoo on his wrist, just like, you know, Draco.  It’s no biggie, okay?  Why’re you getting all strung up about it?”

Silence hung for a moment, then Snape cleared his throat and started marching fast towards the Disapparation point.  “Probably just a coincidence.”

“Yeah.  Whatever.  And Professor?”

“What?”

“You said if I wanted, I could have Mum’s research papers.  The ones in the folders?  Can I have them?  I want to read them.”

 

* * *

 

St Andrews Day was fast approaching, a day that McGonagall enjoyed celebrating with Scottish-themed decorations and feast in the Great Hall.  Amongst the tartan and Saltire, towering cotton thistles in pots were placed where they could be admired but not touched, and it was the job of first-year Herbology to ensure these biennial plants were in flower.

The Gryffindor Slytherin group was waiting outside Greenhouse Number One for their first morning class, and unusually, Longbottom was not around.  As the students sheltered where they could from the frigid wind blowing right off the lake, their hands shoved deep into pockets and scarves wrapped high around the neck and chin, they huddled in small groups talking and glancing about for a sign of their teacher.  Amelie, as always, stood alone, apparently oblivious to the slicing cold from her position on an embankment, although plumes of her breath were evident to Servius even from where he stood against the side of the greenhouse.

“On time today, eh, Snape?” came a caustic voice from behind him.  He turned to a huddle of Gryffindors and saw Conor McMillan sneering at him.

“What?”

“Can’t afford any more points off the Slytherins eh?  Have you seen the Hourglasses?  Slytherin’s coming last now.  How many’d you lose, Snape?”

“Fuck off, McMillan.”

“How’d you lose them?  For being dumber than a sack of shit, or just generally for being a Mugglemunt?”

“Oi!  Back off McMillon, you’re askin’ for it!” yelled Bertram Curteys, a Slytherin Servius hadn’t had much to do with and so this surprised him.

“Askin’ for what, Bertie?” retorted McMillon loudly.  “C’mon then if you’re ‘ard enough – s’not like Slytherin can get any lower than last.  Might as well have a poke, eh?” McMillon stepped free of his group toward Curteys, who was standing with Iona MacGhee and Geraldine Cooper.  “Gonna get your ugly snake girlfriends to help you out?”

Curteys, his ears suddenly flaming, boldly approached McMillon and the pair stood chest to chest.  Servius started towards them too but Wait for William held him back by the arm.

“Jealous, McMillon?” said Curteys, an inch taller than McMillon and staring him down.  “Looking at your Gryffindor slags I wouldn’t be surprised.  Wouldn’t ride one if they begged for it, which they have, but I don’t want my dick falling off.”

There were gasps from the small nearby group of Gryffindor girls and Flavius Murphy, a handsome Prefect in the making, moved toward the blustering pair and said in a reasonable voice, “Cut it out McMillon, you know the Gryffindor Commandments.”

“Did you just hear what he said about the Gryffindor lasses?”

"He's just getting a rise-,"

“McMillon bloody started it!” said Curteys.  “He called Snape a Mugglemunt.”

“You can’t say that!” said Murphy.  “His Dad’s the ruddy Deputy.”

“I think it was his Dad that took half the points off Slytherin,” said McMillon with a scathing look at Servius.  “It’s hard to tell which one’s the bigger wanker.”

Then William suddenly strode forward and pushed McMillon.  “You’re the wanker! You – you -,” he looked as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t think of any words.

“What’s this?!” scoffed McMillon.  “Sorry, shoulda known we were waiting for you Billy boy.  Is it okay with you, Snape, if I teach your little lady what’s what?”  And with that, McMillon hooked William around the ankle and tripped him.  Due to the slight hill they were on, William hit the ground heavily then rolled south.

Servius, blinded, rushed at McMillon and launched himself in frenzy of uncoordinated thumps and punches until they too had hit the ground and rolled in the wet grass.  As fists flew, the remaining students encircled them and chanted encouragement, until William got to his feet and grabbed at McMillon to pull him off.  In response, Topper Prott pushed William, and then suddenly the majority of boys were in the fray, and half a dozen girls were slapping and pulling hair as well.

“Merlin’s beard, what is going on here!?”

It was Longbottom, from nowhere, hauling students up by their collars.  “You – and you – up to the Hospital Wing.  Watch!  You’re dripping blood on your jumpers.  Who’s responsible?  Come on!  Who started this?”

“Snape sir!” yelled McMillon.  “Snape and his girlfriend.”

“Fuck you!” hollered Servius.  “Prove it!”

Longbottom glanced about, but all the remaining students – Slytherin and Gryffindor alike – were silent and staring at the ground.

“See me after class, Snape.  The rest of you – inside, take your stations.  Honestly, I was five minutes late!”

It was then that Servius noticed Longbottom's left forearm was roughly bandaged, the binding irregularly laid and sloppy as if he'd done it himself.  A stain of red was on the outer side, and the shirt-sleeve that he'd dragged back up his arm was stained with blood as well.

But he didn’t have time for a prolonged look: the students trooped into the blessedly heated greenhouse where they stood at their places at the workbenches, and, appearing flustered and irritable as he pulled on his dragon-hide gloves, Longbottom began instruction on thistle-forcing.

An hour later, they all trooped out again, except Servius, who stayed where he was and propped his chin on his hand.  He was sore all over now – quite a few of McMillon's thumps had connected – and his bottom lip in particular had a wide, stinging split in it.  But at least he hadn't hexed or jinxed – his status as Warlock should be intact.

“Right, Snape,” said Longbottom from up at his workbench.  “Well I don’t know, is there any pleasure in taking points off Slytherin when it’s gone into a negative balance?” He was arranging the smaller potted thistles into rows, but paused to look hard at Servius. “Don’t try and tell me you didn’t start that fight.”

“McMillon started it.”

“Well naturally; like father like son.  Your father made it a point of pride to blame Gryffindor when it was the Slytherins at fault the whole time.  He was a bit of a master at arguing black is white.”

Servius was simply confused and sat silently.

Longbottom tugged at each finger of his gloves before pulling them off, then turned to fetch his lion-monogrammed Gryffindor Portfolio from his bag.  He placed it on the table before him, and as he began turning pages, Servius’s eyes were drawn to a glimpse of an image on the exposed inner wrist of his injured arm.  The longer he stared the more convinced he became: Longbottom had the _same tattoo_ that Draco had, the one HBP had described in the diary, the one he referred to as a _DM_.  Was it some kind of gang insignia?  What on earth did Draco, HBP and Longbottom have in common?

Servius could only see the tattoo in mere snatches: he couldn’t confidently say it was the exact image, it was more the location of it that had aroused his suspicions.  So he stood and took two steps toward the workbench hoping for a better look.

Longbottom paused and glanced up, instantly alert.  “Stay where you are Snape.  I’m writing up a report.   Give me the names.  This will go to the Headmistress and Professor Slughorn.”

The pause was perfect, just enough for Servius to have an uninterrupted viewing and Longbottom’s eyes followed the lingering gaze.  Instantly he turned his wrist over and his thick eyebrows were drawn furiously together.  “Yes?” he snapped.  “Something on your mind?”

“No, sir.”

“Names?” he barked, and when Servius supplied him with a list of Gryffindors and Gryffindors only, he got angrier and slammed the book shut.  “Your time is coming,” he said in a barely-controlled hush, glaring at Servius.  “You.  Your contemptible progenitor…it will come to a close.”

Servius’s eyes grew wide.  “Sir?  Are you threatening me?”

“Don’t be smart.  Don’t be smart with me.”

“But…that sounded like a threat -,”

Longbottom smiled but his eyes were flint. He tilted his head. “Then off you go.  Run to Daddy.  See if he makes anything of it.  He didn’t save your mother…why should he make the effort with you?”

At this, Servius’s mouth fell open.  “What did you just say?”

“Get out.  We’re done here.”

“You don’t know anything about my mother!”

“Get out!  Now!”

Servius took a few steps backward, trembling with shock and rage, then bolted from the greenhouse.  That was the last class he intended to have with Longbottom.  Amelie was right – if skipping the class added to his chances of expulsion, then it would be for a good cause.

He ran toward the front door of the castle but then his steps slowed and eventually he came to stop in the courtyard where he stood, clenching and unclenching his fists.  He didn’t want to go in, he didn’t care if he never stepped foot across the great, slate hearth again.  Apart from William and Professor Sinistra, he either hated or couldn’t care less about every soul in the building.  His father had let his mother die, he didn’t save her, and if Longbottom knew that then who else did?  All the teachers?  Sinistra too?  The counsellor?  Were they all whispering and shaking their heads at him, the child of the murdered woman, son of the man who let her die, who didn’t want him?

He half-turned, dazed, and encountered Fisk standing behind him, tail in a slow, ponderous swish.  For want of something to do, and unexpectedly sensing comfort, Servius laid a hand on the hound’s head.  Fisk’s tail sped up a little and he licked Servius’s hand, then the dog turned and the boy followed.

Fisk led him to Hagrid, busy about his hut garden, carrying pails of indeterminate things.   When Servius came into view, forlorn and shivering, one hand on Fisk’s head, Hagrid placed his pails down and, standing at full height, looked down his expanse of beard and belly at the boy.

"Alright then, lad?   Ain't you got a class you should be in?"

“No.  Got a free one.”

Hagrid’s eyebrows shot up, a little doubtfully.  “That so?  Righto.  So why’s Fisk brought you to me then?”

“I dunno.  Maybe he thought you needed a hand?”

“Well…I was about to do some digging dreckly but -,”

“No.  No digging.”

“Want to give them cabbages to the flobberworms?” Hagrid cocked his head towards the pails.

“Fine,” said Servius picking one up by its handle and, after searching about amongst various possible haunts that seemed to proliferate around Hagrid’s abode, he found the darkened, mouldy wood enclosure with a creaky hatch that, when lifted, caused the creatures inside to shift and slither around against the sudden light.  Cringing, Servius upended the bucket and hastily shut the hatch again when sounds of shredding and sucking could be heard.

His mind on was HBP again, grasping for the relief of suppressed emotion, control.  He imagined, in his head, was a box, perhaps with a hatch like the flobberworm’s cage, and that he could take his anger and fear and loneliness and ball it up, like rubbish paper, and shove it in the box.  He could slam the lid down, lock it if necessary, and in time perhaps it would just compost away, like so much flobberworm food.  And there was how he would manage it, from now on, when it got too much.  It was the best plan he had; so far the only plan.

He wandered back, deep in thought, to the second pail and paused behind Hagrid, who was bent over the business of turning sod.  “I thought there were spells for digging,” said Servius, it only now occurring to him that he’d never seen Hagrid with a wand.

“Yar, there is, that’s true. But this is exercise, ain’t it.  Good for yer.  If yer done with the flobberworms, ‘ere’s some juicy worms for the fwooper,”

“Erm…actually, still got these cabbages to do.  Um, Hagrid, can I ask you something?”

“Ask away, laddie.”

“What is a mudblood?”

Hagrid stopped mid-shovel and looked sharply at Servius.  “Now where’d you come across that then?”

“Something I read,” answered Servius lightly.  But he already knew the term was anything but casual.  He’d overheard it once or twice in the common room but had largely disregarded it until it had come up in the diary, and in the most spectacular fashion.  One day, HBP had not made an entry.  The page had been blank, a date in May, Servius remembered.  He immediately turned the page and HBP had entered a passage, but short, staccato, in complete contrast to his usual detailed ruminations.  He had written that the Ms had used his own spell against him, _levicorpus_ , and that he’d called L a mudblood, and that this seemed particularly dire since L had not forgiven him.  To Servius, given that L seemed to be standing around watching with the Ms instead of hexing every single one of them (which is what Servius decided he’d have done, after getting HBP down, and then going back-to-back with him in Warlock mode) he hardly blamed HBP for calling her a name or two.  But L had evidently taken it grievously and was unprepared to accept the most grovelling of apologies from HBP, and – having read this far of HBP’s diary - Servius knew that it wouldn’t have been easy for the boy to have slept outside the Gryffindor common room.  Servius thought that if he’d been there, he would have hauled HBP back to Slytherin and given him a talking to.  “Plenty of fish in the sea, mate,” he would have said.  “I don’t think she’s that much of a friend, no matter what you say about her.”  The word mudblood, though, had cost HBP dearly.

Hagrid was staring hard, eyes slightly narrowed.  “Thass a word we don’t use around here.”

“I know it’s a bad name for someone.  But what does it mean?’

Hagrid returned to his digging momentarily and Servius thought he wasn’t going to get an explanation.  For the normally philosophical, earthy Hagrid to take it so seriously imparted a bit more weight to HBP’s crime and Servius waited earnestly.

“A witch or a wizard who was born to non-magical parents.  Thass all.  Jus’ because it’s an offensive word, don’t mean it must be right.  There’s no crime in being born to that.  An’ you don’t never use it, you hear?  It’s hurtful.”

“Muggle-borns?”

“Thass right.  The same.”

“So my mother was a mudblood?”

Hagrid frowned hard at him. “I know wha’ yer mean, Servius, but don’t be sayin’ tha’.  Your mother was mighty clever an’ wise an’ she had a heart like a Hippogriff. She were full of magic.  I remember her walkin’ about roun’ here teachin’ hersel’ how to do a Patronus.  I won’t hear of it, you sayin’ things like that.”

“Is that why she died in the war?  Because she was a Muggle-born?”

Hagrid’s eyes were like shiny coals beneath his furrowed brow.  “She did nothin’ wrong.  War’s a terrible thing, an’ it don’t make sense.”

“Do you know how she died Hagrid?”

There was a sudden, chilling, squealing scream from the Forest, like a tiny tortured child.  Servius and Hagrid both glanced in its direction and Fisk barked once, but Hagrid was shaking his shaggy head and turned back to Servius without moving.  “S’alright,” he said to the wide-eyed boy.  “Just a rabbit.  Fox ‘as got ‘im, or a Drop Bear.  Now listen: these things about your Mam – you need to talk to your Dad about ‘em, not me.  Ain’t my place, laddie.  I’ll ‘elp you any way I can…but some things is sacred.  You talk to your Dad.”

Servius scowled at this and jerked up the pail of cabbages, then stomped through the mud back to the flobberworm enclosure.  He knew he was closer to the truth of the matter.  Snape had given him the folders containing his mother’s records and theories (under the promise of death if he lost or ruined any of them, which just proved how little his father understood him) but they were fragmented and didn't make much sense.  She had been researching magical genetics, this much he could appreciate, but it was all phrased as theory, not proof: without access to Muggle technology she was frustrated.  But what she had written into the textbook was her most important message: the differences between purebloods or Muggle-borns or part-bloods was literally microscopic.

“Hagrid,” said Servius, returning to the garden and placing the second empty pail beside the first.  “I have another question.”

“Righto.  Let’s hear it.”

“Why can’t we go near the Whomping Willow?”

“Cos it’ll whomp yer o’ course!”  And Hagrid glanced into the distance at the tree in question, its stringy, leafless branches drooping dejectedly.  “Though it’s asleep this time o’ year so it don’t look much.”

It was what Servius had hoped to hear.  He looked non-committal about it and distracted Hagrid by letting the fwooper out of its cage while he attempted to feed it the worms, and then making his excuses, snuck away directly for the willow while the coast was clear.

There was a tunnel near the Whomping Willow; HBP had described his exploits in it and the role of the willow in guarding it, however the tree was motionless when Servius crept toward it.  Small twigs twitched a little, but sparrows and starlings perched on its branches and scolded him without any response at all.  As far as Servius could tell, it was as animated as any over-wintering tree.

There was no sign of a tunnel.  The grass thereabout was tinged with brown from frost, and damp underfoot, but it was otherwise undisturbed.  The entrance had probably been sealed up.  “Where is it, HBP?" he muttered, scanning the terrain, looking for anything tell-tale.  He knew, geographically, it was unlikely to go straight down but commence at a perpendicular angle and so he concentrated on the face of the hill rather than the flat ground and zeroed in on a conspicuous lumpy section, which were rocks, he discovered, covered in moss and lichen, not grass.  After ten minutes of effort, he dislodged a rock at the top of the mound with his hands and then realised he could work much faster if he sat atop the mound and pushed at the remaining rocks with his legs and feet. 

Time passed unnoticed while he worked, and the sun rose in the sky and presently he heard a bell ring and then the tell-tale sound of faraway students chatting and laughing.  He surmised it was lunchtime and students would be making their way to the Great Hall.  The thought of it was loudly seconded by his rumbling stomach, but the idea of going inside where _they_ were drowned out his hunger with an impotent fury.  Gritting his teeth, he redoubled his efforts and was soon rewarded with a gap between the rocks, a glimpse of hollow darkness and a gasp of stale air. He was right - this was the entrance to the tunnel: he’d found it.  By the time the bell rang again, he’d created enough of a gap between the rocks to slip through, and just as cries of “Servius?  Servius where are you?” rang faintly down the hillside, he’d lit his wand and dropped inside.

 

* * *

 

Snape became aware of Servius's absence as soon as first-year potions were let in.  He noticed Wait for William was alone, and as the other students were taking their seats he beckoned him up to the dais and asked in low tones: "Where's Servius?"

“I think with Professor Longbottom, sir,” said William anxiously.  “He was told to stay behind after class.”

“Why?’

William looked at the floor, at the other students, at his hands.

“William?”

“There was a fight sir.”

“I see,” said Snape briskly, suppressing a sigh.  “Is that why you’re covered in mud?”

William glanced down as if noticing this for the first time.  “Oh.  Yes sir.”

“And Servius started it I suppose?”

“No sir!” said William hotly.  “It was the Gryffindors!  McMillon’s a wanker!”

Snape glanced over William’s head looking for McMillon.  “Was he kept back as well?”

“He had to go to the Hospital Wing sir.  He was bleeding everywhere.”

Snape’s brow arched.  “This fighting wasn’t with wands?”

“Absolutely not sir.  Servius wouldn’t risk breaking the Oath again.”

Snape fought down a smile.  “Right.  To your desk.  He’ll join us in a minute.  Open your texts, everyone!”

But Servius did not show and mildly concerned, Snape checked the master schedule.  Astronomy followed.  He would check with Sinistra during recess.

He was saved the trouble by Slughorn, who apprehended him outside the Potions classroom and reported that Servius had now been missing for two periods and none of the students or elves had seen him.

“Longbottom,” murmured Snape and Slughorn shoved his glasses up his nose in surprise.

“Neville?  What’s he got to do with it?”

“Servius was last seen with him.  Ask the portraits if they can find him, I’m going to the greenhouse.”

His robes billowing behind him as he marched across the Entrance Hall to the main door, Snape found his wand had slipped into his hand with hardly a thought.  His subconscious had categorised Longbottom without consulting him.  It had to be catastrophic circumstances for Snape to use his wand against a teacher, and yet he didn’t put it away: it put him in the right frame of mind - he was looking to confront Longbottom, this targeting of Servius had gone on long enough.

“Severus?”

He had reached the door but turned at his name, turned to the voice.  Sinistra.  She was coming down the marble staircase and was stepping onto the flagstone floor.  “Are you looking for Servius?  He wasn’t in Astronomy.  William thinks he’s done a bunk.”

Snape’s heart had trip-wired at the sight of her – it had been several days now since he’d last seen her (she’d even had his cloak returned to him via a student) - and it pained him to know he’d hurt her.  Ever since that evening in her office, he’d wasted an unhealthy number of hours doing little else but replaying events and becoming quite inventive in his speculations about what might have happened if he’d stayed.  All sorts of things had been piqued in him as a result of those few intense minutes, and yet he couldn’t say that he felt ready for Sinistra, not in the way he had been for Lily or Charity.  He couldn’t kiss one woman and have another in his head – that wasn’t how he worked – but her withdrawal left him bereft and confused. 

She was conspicuously demure in her formal teacher attire, hair sleek and secured, her expression carefully neutral as she came towards him.

"Aurora-," he began solemnly, intending to apologise, but she shook her head.

“Don’t.  Just don’t,” her voice was soft and she frowned a little, looking to the side of him. “I’ve dealt with all that.  Let’s put it behind us.”

“But I – I -,”

“No.  It was a mistake.  I see that now, I shouldn’t have confused things.  Servius is what matters now.”

Snape shook his head a little.  “You’re wrong, it wasn’t a mistake -,”

Then abruptly she glared at him, the furious intensity in her eyes stopping any words in his throat.  “I’m humiliated enough, Severus.  Let it be!”

He straightened and lowered his lids, retreating immediately.  He thought he saw an instant of regret on her features, then she did the same.  “Very well,” he murmured.  “Then yes, Servius. Longbottom was last to see him I believe.  I am on my way there now.”

She shook her head quickly. “I saw him earlier; Longbottom I mean.  He had an injury.  He looked like he was heading to the Hospital Wing.”

“ _Longbottom_ had an injury?  I understand there was a fight – surely not -?”

“You think Servius wounded him?!  Then could Servius be hurt?”

Snape let his gaze linger on her face for a moment.  “I’ll find out.” Then he redirected towards the staircase.

Within minutes Snape had reached the arched doors to the Hospital only for them to open abruptly before him and Longbottom himself stood there, accompanied by an uneasy Diaphne.  Recent medical attention had evidently just been applied, for Longbottom held his left arm awkwardly and the sleeve of his shirt was bloodstained, but he seemed otherwise his normal self.  He was in the process of pulling on one of his favoured patterned jumpers and carried on with this in an overtly casual, disinterested way as Snape spoke.

“Longbottom – where is Servius?”

“Severus – always a pleasure to see you.”

“Where is Servius?”

“Has Servius gone missing?” asked Diaphne.

“Last seen at Herbology,” replied Snape but not looking away from Longbottom.  “Answer me.  Where is he?”

Longbottom pulled the jumper over his head and attended to his shirt collar.  "Well if he's done a runner, it's nothing to do with me.  I sent him off to his next class."

“Oh yes?  In what kind of condition?  Physically or just mentally traumatised? How did you get that injury?”

Longbottom’s brow’s raised sceptically. “He started a fight, Severus, with the other students.  A typical Slytherin manoeuvre to get attention.  He really can’t afford the House Points can he?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed; he stepped close and lifted his wand and placed the tip of it under Longbottom’s chin.  Longbottom held still and affected nonchalance.  “You can’t get back at me by picking on Servius,” Snape said quietly.   “If you want to settle some scores, then you just let me know.  You and me.  But leave Servius the hell alone.”

“Get your wand away from me, Snape,” muttered Longbottom, raising his hand and moving the wand aside.  “And get a grip.  You’re losing your mind.”

“Professor?” said Diaphne uncertainly.  “I – I don’t want to report you -,”

Snape scowled at her.  “This isn’t any concern of yours.”

“Of course it is,” snapped Longbottom.  “I’m unarmed and you’re threatening me outside the Hospital Wing.  It’s a school concern, the way I see it.  You and your wayward son are a liability, trying to solve all your problems with fighting.  You saw, didn’t you Diaphne?”

“Um…” said Diaphne and dropped her eyes.

“Between this and your ridiculous performance at the Halloween Party, I’ve a serious mind to alert the Headmistress.  I warned her she shouldn’t take you back.  Can’t be trusted, I told her.”

Snape was glowering.  He spoke between clenched teeth.  “You don’t fool me, Longbottom, not for a second.  Why are you _really_ here?”

And there was a split-second of hesitation, Longbottom’s eyes widened a fraction, the smug satisfaction faltered, and then were firmly set back in place. “I’m here to teach, Snape.  To teach and to lead.  I always have.”

And with that he stepped past Snape, brusquely hitting his shoulder as he went, and stalked off without a backward glance.

 

* * *

 

Servius walked through the front door of Hogwarts just after four pm.  The sun was setting, a chill had descended, and when he started his run from the Shrieking Shack to Hogwarts, his rucksack bouncing rhythmically if uncomfortably, his breath had fogged.  He didn’t want to come back through the tunnel – not only had he found it unexpectedly long and dark, it was deeply unsettling - he felt he could travel faster if he were able to set up a steady run. And so with the help of some children who’d come to play in the shack, he’d found the Hogsmeade path back to Hogwarts and set off along it.  Now, in his heart of hearts, he was looking forward to a warm dinner, a warm common room, some friends and his bed. 

 But his reception was anything but warm.  It was McGonagall that got the warning from Hagrid as Servius entered the Flying Boar gates, and she was the one waiting at the oaken door as he attempted to open it.  The doors had been locked, and there was no chance of a surreptitious entrance.  Sheepishly he knocked, and she swung it open and glared at him.

“You’ve caused quite a ruckus,” were her starting words.  “Young master Snape, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

Two hours later he was allowed to join the others for dinner.  But Snape was livid, Sinistra was wringing her hands, Slughorn was bound to the library for detention every Friday for three weeks and Concetta Cropper had an appointment for Servius the following Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.  And yet none of them discovered where he’d been…he alone knew about the tunnel.

 

* * *

 

The Crone’s Decline potion for McGonagall needed to be prepared that night; there were ingredients that Snape had purchased on his recent trip Diagon Alley that would expire if left unused any longer. After a watchful dinner and seeing Servius under Slughorn’s direct supervision, he took to his chamber and started work.  He’d hoped that the complexity of the potion would have the effect of distracting him from everything else, as focussed brewing had always done in the past.  But instead of falling into a calming, concentrated reverie to the sound of bubbling concoctions and satisfying fumes, his mind was stubborn on its hamster-wheel of unsolvable problems, tugging and pestering for his attention. 

He had never brewed this potion before and St Mungo’s Apothecary had only released the recipe with great reluctance, having included all kinds of medical indemnities and waivers at the bottom of the scroll that McGonagall had been obliged to accept.  When the first batch didn’t have the exact colour as prescribed, Snape pondered for a full fifteen minutes on what that might signify and whether a risk could be afforded.  He knew his mind hadn’t been fully on the job.

Eventually, distrusting himself, he set it aside for a second opinion from Slughorn, then turned off the cauldron burner.  He leant on his arms against the wide, oak mixing bench and hung his head, exhausted, frustrated and questioning himself more than he could remember since the last year of the war.  Was Longbottom right?  Was it a mistake for him to think he could start over?

There was a soft knock on the door, and he glanced up, glassy-eyed.  It was getting late into the evening and hadn’t expected any visitors.  “Who is it?”

“It’s Aurora.  Can I come in?”

He stood very straight, a thrill of nerves suddenly snapping him to attention.  With his wand, he swung the door open and watched with trepidation as she entered and shut the door behind her.  She had on her plush winter cloak with the hood pulled up and gave every impression of someone who’d travelled incognito.  Once inside, she stopped on the other side of his workbench and dropped the hood back, her eyes on his were wide but reproachful.

"Hello…" said Snape, and the word sounded strange even to him.  He seldom said it.  He just wasn't sure what words were appropriate under the circumstances.

“I didn’t know where you were,” she said.

“Oh…,” he waved his hand generally over the cauldron and bench.  “I’m brewing.”

She frowned at him.  Then she hung her head back and took a deep breath.  “I don’t know what I’m doing.  I’m…I’ve gotten all mixed up.”

“Did…did you want help with something?”

“Yes, Severus!” she exclaimed but then lowered her voice in effort to sound reasonable.  “I – I want us to agree that, that – we’ll just work together for Servius’s sake?  I mean, today shouldn’t have happened – you saw Minerva, her patience is running thin, I don’t want him to give her grounds for suspending or even expelling him.”

“Yes,” he said after a moment, staring.  “He likes you.  We should work together.”

She wandered along the length of the bench a little, then paused again to toy with a stirrer.  “I’ll never be Charity – I mean, I’ll never replace her as his mother, but -,” she looked up at him, “…but I genuinely care about him and…and I would like to be there for him.”

Snape was still staring at her, his breathing quickened a little.  “He trusts you.  He has few others in his life right now.”

“And…everyone needs affection, don’t they Severus?” She met his stare.  “He seemed to really like it when I…gave him a cuddle the other evening."

She took a few more steps along her side of the bench and Snape took a step as well, keeping level. 

“Affection…touch…,” he swallowed.  “A person can crave it.”

“Yes.  It’s like…it can switch you on…”

She had reached the end of the bench and rounded the edge, coming to face him.  Her eyes never left his. 

“Sometimes words aren’t enough…” muttered Snape, and his words did indeed die away when he saw the hope and longing in her expression.

“Severus - ?” she whispered, half question, half anticipation, and he cut off anything further by crushing his mouth to hers, pulling her body forcibly up against him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed afterward, his lips still lingering on hers.  “I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

Her fingers through his hair, she brought his head down again and they fell back, hitting the bench, her arm knocking over bottles of ingredients.

“This is just for Servius, us working together,” she gasped as he ripped free the catch of her cloak to kiss her neck.  “We’re all he has.”

“We should go to my room to discuss it,” said Snape, his hands running up the inside of her top, pushing up her bra.

“A meeting, yes! Oh…yes…”

“Indeed, let’s have a meeting…”  Then they kissed again for several minutes and in several places and Sinistra slid her hands up his back and along his shoulders then pulled away, to blink worriedly at all he buttons on his coat.

“How do I take this off?”

He had a trick, perfected after years of donning and removing the same style of garment.  At a certain angle, he could pull down at the collar of the coat and the buttons one by one slipped free, zip-like.  She watched, amazed, then leapt in to finish the job.  When she threw the coat and cravat aside, they crashed against more bottles and some beakers as well.

But Snape barely noticed.  She now had her hands inside his shirt, on his chest, his torso, and it had been months since he’d been physically touched.  His skin almost quivered with pleasure, coming awake beneath her fingers, and desire, untrammelled, coursed through his veins.  He half-planned to take her to his room, to his bed, but he couldn’t quite think straight and things were moving too fast.  She had her own top off now and she smelt heavenly, she tasted heavenly where his lips grazed over her, it was intoxicating.

“Up on the table,” she muttered, and needing no further encouragement, he hoisted her up and she lay down on her fur-lined cloak, claiming the space and sweeping a few last test-tubes to the floor.  In some way he didn’t remember, he joined her, only pausing to pull off his shirt while she undid her bra.  Then she brought him down into her arms and he kissed her again, slower now, feeling her breasts against him, feeling the heat, her writhing, supple softness, her breath on his neck. 

His need was urgent now, all his vitality was gathering in one place and this could not be stopped, and so resting on one elbow he pushed up her skirt to grasp her panties.

“Are we doing this Severus?” she breathed when he started to tug them down.  “Are you sure?”

“I am more than sure,” he said, meeting her dazed eyes.  “I think we’re working well together.” 

With a small smile, she wriggled free of her underwear and helped him unbuckle his trousers.  He pushed her skirt up to her waist and nudged her thighs apart, and moments later entered her, hard, and she gave a high yelp, and he felt his heart thundering.  He closed his eyes, the pleasure intense and vast, and her moans and sighs were like waves he rode on, her raised hips coaxing him into a rhythm.

He didn’t want to come so soon, but his excitement was overpowering and the moment had been so unexpected.  As he felt the pressure build, the moment of release rising fast and powerful, in his mind he was with Charity in the bed at Dumbledore’s cottage, Charity was arching her back, gripping his Dark Mark and saying his name; he felt the burn on his wrist, the pain, and then along with his involuntary groan, searing through it all like first light on the horizon, came the bliss.  



	26. The Secrets at Malfoy Manor

St Andrews Day was a Thursday, and though there were plans for a feast and festivities in the evening, it was an otherwise ordinary school day.  The full complement of students were gathered for breakfast as normal in the Great Hall, already eating proper salty porridge designed to stick to their bones, and it was a slightly late Snape that made his way across the flags from the dungeons still doing up the buttons on his sleeve.  However, he paused when he encountered McGonagall coming down the marble staircase dressed in her standard green velvet cloak and black witch’s gown, and he greeted her carefully. “Ma’am.  Just normal then?”

“I beg your pardon?” she responded, bewildered.

“You said you were going to wear your tartan today.”

“Did I?  Why ever would I do that?”

“It’s St Andrews Day, Ma’am.  Have you forgotten?”

She blinked at him; clearly the matter had fled her mind entirely.  “Oh.  Is it today?”

This was increasingly the way of their communications.  Small things, inconsequential.  Every time it happened, Snape’s heart constricted a little, he was astonished at how strongly he felt for her.  “Yes Ma’am,” he said gently.  “It’s November thirtieth.  We’re having a feast tonight.”

“I know about the feast,” she snapped, but she flinched at the same time and half turned back to the stairs.  “I’ll go and change.  Wearing my tartan today is a fine notion.  Start the breakfast please Severus.”

“Indeed Ma’am.  Your tea will be waiting for you.”

As she hastened back up the staircase for the Gargoyle Tower, Snape went to the nearest portrait and murmured: “Get a message to Dumbledore.  The Headmistress is returning to change into her tartan.” Between them, he and Dumbledore discreetly filled the gaps for her, making her passage through each day as smooth as possible, but the back of his mind was quietly cogitating on ways to improve on the St Mungo’s potion.

 

* * *

 

The day continued in typical form, and being a Thursday, the Duelling Club had its weekly meeting after classes on the sixth floor.  Servius and Wait for William were walking along the corridor towards the room a few minutes early to discover Amelie hovering outside the door, and when she saw Servius she stared at him.

William elbowed him and said in an undertone “Why does Amelie Hellmann keep looking at you?”

Servius met her eyes and blood flushed up his neck and into his cheeks.  “I don’t know,” he muttered.

“She’s been weird ever since that duel you had.”

“More weird, you mean.”

“Different weird.  You know that she hangs out at school on the weekends?”

“What?”

“Yeah.  Even though she’s a day student.  Haven’t you seen her lurking about in the Forest?”

“Nuh.”

“Proper little witch, that one.  All toil and trouble.”

As they got closer, she stood hugging a few textbooks to her chest, scowling and evidently waiting.  “I’ve been trying to talk to you,” she said to Servius.  There was a conspiratorial note to her tone. 

“Why?”

But she glanced at William who was frowning darkly at her.  “No way!” said William.  “You’re trying to get him in trouble again.”

She dragged baleful eyes from William to Servius.  “Alone.”

William turned pink and frowned furiously but had no comeback. Servius nodded; Amelie knew too much to be ignored now, and besides, he rather welcomed private time with her.  “I’ll just talk to her for a minute, Will. Keep me a seat.”

William stormed off, and once out of earshot, Servius said, “What do you want?”

Amelie trailed her eyes up and down him, then she smiled secretly.  “Where did you hide?  After Herbology?  Your plan worked perfectly.”

There had been no plan.  “I’m not telling.”

“Fine.  I don’t care, but I’m cross because you should have included me.  How are they going to punish you?  Did they say you will be expelled?”

“No,” said Servius.  “Detention.  I have to meet with Madame Cropper three times.”

“Madame Cropper!” said Amelie, looking suddenly alarmed.  “She’ll get you to talk.  Don’t tell her anything.  She’ll tell everyone you’re fixed up and you’ll have to stay.”

“The Headmistress is making me see her.”

“You don’t have to talk.  She can’t force you to say anything.”

When Servius didn’t reply, she asked, “What did Longbottom do about the fighting?”

“He blamed me.  And then…” Servius stopped, wary, but in some way that he couldn’t with William, he felt he could tell Amelie things.  “He said Prof…my father…he said…my father didn’t save my mother and so he wouldn’t save me either.”

Amelie glanced at him.  “Did your father kill your mother?” she asked with a practical sort of interest.

“No!” blurted Servius, realising that he had somehow intuited this.  He still had no idea how his mother had died, but he knew his father had loved her.  “No…but he should have saved her from whoever did kill her.”

“So you think Longbottom knows what happened?”

“Yeah.  I think he does.  But how, I don’t know.  Maybe that’s why he and my father hate each other so much.”

Reflective silence from Amelie, but when he looked at her again, she was smiling.  It made his heart do a little jump.

“Guess what else about Professor Longbottom,” she said, and her eyes took on a mischievous glint.

Servius shook his head.  “I don’t know.  What?”

With a quick check of the corridor to make sure they were alone, she swung off her rucksack from her shoulder to her feet and opened the flap, then brought out a feathered stick.  Servius recognised the Centaur arrow – the same chiselled stone broadhead, the same fletching - as the one that had stuck in his trainer, and which he now kept in the bottom of his trunk.  “Where’d you get that?”

“Longbottom threw it away into the Forbidden Forest.  I was watching him.  That’s why he was late for that Herbology lesson; I think this is what made his arm bleed.”

Servius took it from her and examined the point closely.  “Yeah, look, is that blood?”

“ _Ja._   I think Longbottom has been in Centaur territory,” said Amelie, and then tilted her head and frowned quizzically.  “Why would he do that?”

 

* * *

 

“Please, in your pairs, find a duelling lane,” Hellmann called out above the hub of excited warlocks as they entered the Shoot house, which had been cleared of baffles to make room.  “Stand on one of the crosses marked at the ends.  Both ends are the same, it doesn’t matter which one you have.  Left-handeds might be better to work with another left-handed…”

Snape pulled up at the rear of the group of Duelling Club members, hands hitched on the lapels of his gown, unable to suppress an arched brow of approval at Benedict Hellmann’s set up as he surveyed the room. He watched as Servius and Wait for William took up their designated positions in a lane.  Since Snape’s surprise arrival at the meeting, Servius had communicated his intense displeasure by slumping in his chair, folding his arms and glaring at the floor.  He now shot withering glances at Snape and Snape scowled in return.  Servius undoubtedly assumed Snape was here to keep an eye on him, and while that wasn’t in fact the case, he saw no harm in showing a fatherly interest in his duelling skill since he was here.

“Professor Snape!” declared Hellmann.  “And now I reveal the reason for my invitation.  I understand you’ve done some duelling in the past – would you be so kind to act as my adversary in a demonstration of _true_ duelling for the novices?”

At first, with uncomfortable memories of Gilderoy Lockhart’s similar suggestion so many years ago, Snape demurred.  But there was something about Hellmann’s youthful grin that constantly appealed to his competitive side.  While Lockhart had wanted to duel as a means of promoting himself, Hellmann clearly loved the sport for its own sake, and that was hard for Snape to resist.

“Very well,” he finally said, and retrieved his wand as Hellmann clapped loudly and led the way up to the teacher’s dais.

“Everyone – watching closely please.  The Duellists take their position.  Bow to each other.  Walk towards each other into the centre and then stop.  Raise your wands – yes, see Professor Snape, that is forty-five degrees, he is challenging me to a duel.  I say yes, by meeting my wand to his.  _Boah!_   What is your wand, Professor?  Is it ebony?  We are the same!  Professor Snape – do you remember the words before the duel?”

“ _Semper fidelis, ut magus, et deus_ ,” said Snape, holding Hellmann’s slightly challenging gaze.  “I honour my Warlock Oath.”

“ _Semper fidelis, ut magus, et deus_ ,” repeated Hellmann, and he grinned again.  He appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.  “And then we return to our positions and raise your wand like…so…”

Snape raised his wand.

“Ah, everyone – see Professor Snape’s left hand he holds back in that way is called the basic stance, like fencing, and we say en garde!  You can hold that stance if you want, but in modern duelling it is a personal choice.  En garde Professor!”

Snape nodded, and Hellmann called: “Duel!”

Two streams of twisting, gnarled green light flashed forth and met at the tip of an arc in the air between the wands.  Snape felt a hard jolt of energy immediately shoot down his wand and through his hand, up to his elbow.   It was only then he realised he hadn’t done any true duelling in years.  It felt as though an iron band had gripped his upper arm and wrist and was slowly twisting it.  He applied force and inched it back but the muscles immediately began to tremble.

“Ha ha!” laughed Hellmann.  “I feel that Professor!”

There was excited chatter across the room as the students watched wide-eyed, those closest faintly green in appearance as their faces reflected the light. 

Snape was dimly aware of them, of Servius watching, and he clenched his jaw but on the surface his features remained steady.  His wellspring was the same passionate energy he drew on for casting an incorporeal Patronus, and he’d been doing the same with this very wand for decades.  He dug in.

“Oof!” said Hellmann, and his smile wavered.  “I see it is coming back to you.”

Snape felt a flicker in the stream, and, like a boa constrictor, he squeezed during the exhalation.  Hellmann frowned.

Snape thought of Servius in the Pensieve, trying to talk to Charity, and his heart swelled a little.  He thought of their walk to the owlery.  He thought of Sinistra looking up at him with her great, dark eyes.  He thought of the ghostly kiss on his lips in the archive.

There was a string of vitriolic German from Hellmann, finished with a spat “ _Mist!_ ” and the DADA Professor staggered backwards.  The green arc broke, and there was a clatter as Hellmann’s wand fell to the floor.

Silence from the students and Snape slowly lowered his own wand, surprised but determined not to show it.

Hellmann quickly smoothed back his hair and picked up his wand.  His jaw was set and the smile had gone, but he said, “Vell done, Professor Snape.  Warlocks – see – that is how a duel is won.  Professor Snape has used his age and experience to overpower me.  Right!  Stop your staring, take your positions – _Schnell!_   Quickly!”

The students scurried away and Hellmann approached Snape with his hand extended.  The faint praise hadn’t been lost of Snape, but he shook hands anyway, aware that Hellmann was exquisitely sensitive to any form of humiliation.  “So you are the worthy opponent I assumed, Professor.  Allow me to congratulate you.  I have not lost a duel in many years.”

“In that case, I am flattered you considered me, Professor.”

Hellmann cocked his head, the smile light.  “Call me Ben?”

Snape was flummoxed.  But he said, “Ben.  I see…alright.”

Hellmann laughed.  “It is my name!  Friends usually call me by my name.”  He paused and waited.

Snape said, “Uh.  Severus.”

“Super!” said Hellmann.  “Severus, help me with these _Hexenmeisters_ and we can have a schnapps.”

After the Warlocks had finished their practice and trooped out of the room, Hellmann locked the door and led the way briskly to the third floor with Snape following.  Hellmann’s expression had become rather stiff and severe and he hadn’t spoken for over ten minutes, so Snape felt compelled to enquire.  “You appear…unsatisfied…?”

They had reached classroom 3C and Hellmann fished out his wand to open it.  His attention slightly preoccupied, he cursed under his breath, then said in a flat, irritated voice, “Amelie.  She is not doing her best.  I think she is pretending to be useless.  I think she is wanting a boyfriend, so she is being a – a -,” he waved his hand about his head, “- silly girl.”

He was, Snape knew, referring to the earlier duel between Servius and Amelie in which his daughter had capitulated within a minute.  Snape had witnessed a nod exchanged between the pair and also noticed Servius’s slightly fixated stare and the dent between his brows, the glance in his own direction, the exaggerated frustration from Amelie when she all but threw down her wand.

“Boyfriend?” repeated Snape.  “You mean Servius?”  The last Snape had heard, Servius and Amelie hated each other.  His son must have made a spectacular apology.

Hellmann looked at him sidelong and pushed open the oak door.  “ _Ja._   Servius.  You haven’t noticed?”

“No!  Aren’t they a bit…young?”

They entered the room and Snape had a brief, distracted thought that he’d never known a classroom to change in décor as often as DADA.  Hellmann’s theme was heavy with beeswaxed dark wood, candlesticks, pagan art and black magic symbolism.  The ink and woodcut illustrations of Celtic druids he approved of enormously.

“In my opinion, yes.  But Amelie’s mother is descended from a long line of malevolent witches and I believe they are – how do you say? – _precocious_.” Hellmann cast him a quick wink.  “Her mother had me snared like a rabbit.  Servius is an…attractive boy, _ja_?  But Amelie must think that she has to be silly for him to like her.”

Snape set his jaw.  “I’ll talk to him.”

“ _Nein, nein_ ,” said Hellmann, waving a dismissive hand.  “Don’t get involved.” He was up at his desk now, and pulling open the bottom drawer.  A smile warmed his face.  “Ah, perfect.” He lifted a bottle to show Snape.  “Kirsch.  I know we are coming into winter, but this is my favourite.”  With his left hand, he gathered two small ceramic cups together and then brought them down to where Snape was leaning against one of the student desks.  “To your victory, I think,” he declared, having filled the cups and handing one to Snape.  “Or young love? _Prost!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Following the feast in the Great Hall that evening, McGonagall gathered all around her before the roaring fire, where she sat on her throne-like chair, a tumbler of neat Lagavulin in hand, and told old Scottish folklore stories (the Nuckelavee in particular earning a collective shiver). 

The children sat on cushions on the floor at her feet, but in the shadows of the outer-circle, the teachers sat on chairs and enjoyed a discreet dram of their own.  Snape had been somewhat concerned that Hellmann might choose to take the empty seat next to his, but it was Sinistra that slipped in, and fleetingly, as his insides plummeted, he thought this might be worse.

They sat side by side without speaking for several minutes as McGonagall began her tales, and then as the Headmistress began to pick up the pace and garnered oohs and aahs from her audience, Sinistra leaned sideways towards him and whispered, “Severus.  Are you avoiding me?”

His heart skipped a beat.  “Uh, no, of course not.”

She was quiet and still again for several more minutes and Snape’s mind raced, trying to predict what she might ask and how he could answer.  He kept his eyes trained on Servius sitting among the other Slytherins, the emerald lining of his robe seeming to gleam in the firelight.

Eventually she leaned towards him again and said, “I’m not trying to put any pressure on you.  I – I know this is a…complicated time.”

“I’ve just been detained, I’ve been busy,” he said shortly, keeping his voice low.

She was quiet, her only movement was one hand massaging the other, and then he felt her glance at him and she murmured: “The Staff Christmas Party is in a couple of weeks.  Shall we, uh, shall we…go?”

Snape swallowed.  That had been on his mind.  Those memories of Charity, the prophesy, the kiss – they were too powerful.  “I can’t…I’m sorry…Servius and I -,”

Beside him, in the gloom, Sinistra became completely still, and then he saw her head lower, like a wilting flower, her hands clasped in her lap.

His heart thumped.  “We’ve accepted an invitation – in England – I can’t leave him with the hosts alone -,”

“Of course,” she murmured.  She raised her chin again.

“Otherwise I would have been honoured -,”

“I quite understand,” she whispered, slightly strangled.  “Of course.  It’s alright.”

He felt terrible.  “Aurora, do you -,”

“I understand, Severus, of course I do.  It will be good for you and Servius to spend time together.”  The words were strained, uneven.  “I mean, I was hoping to see Servius at Christmas.  But -,”

“We’ll be back for New Year -,”

There was hasty nodding, then a period of silence as she wrapped her arms around herself.  “I think I might just go home.  See my mum and dad.” 

She was desolate and he felt empty inside.  He too stared at his hands, completely devoid of what to say to make it better. 

The pots of cotton-thistles that the first-years had brought into flower were placed all around the hall, their striking, taffy-coloured pompoms sometimes as tall as six-foot.  Sinistra reached towards one placed nearby and caressed a prickly leaf.  “Aren’t they impressive?” she said, barely loud enough for Snape to hear.  “With thistles, it’s less about how they look, and more about what they do.  Do you know the expression: to grasp the nettle?  If you want to avoid getting hurt, you must seize it. ‘Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you, for your pains: Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains.’”  She closed her hand around the prickly stem, and in the flickering light of the fire he saw her smile softly at him, tears glinting.  “Sometimes you just have to be brave…and seize it.”

 

* * *

 

His nightmare tolled in the back of his mind when Snape pushed open the heavy archive door, but once inside, and having lit every sconce and gaslamp in the room, he found all to be normal and his wariness subsided a little.  Cold, but normal.  He placed his parchment down on the mahogany table.

“Charity?” he spoke to the room, his heart beating hard.  “Are you here?”

Soon her warmth embraced him, and in contrast to the chill space around him, he found the heat soothing.  He closed his eyes and awaited her invisible touch which, before long, he felt feather-light along his brow, cheek and jawline, the trace of it lingering on his skin.  This was followed by her tender kiss on his lips.  It felt so real, so palpable, and yet he no longer attempted to touch her in return.  He knew he’d find nothing but air. “My love,” he said, “I want to speak the truth to you.”

There were no words of reply on the parchment but instead a pulse of warmth in his chest, which he interpreted to be positive.  So he pulled out a chair and sat, resting his elbows on the table-top and lacing his fingers together.

“The night you died,” he began.  “You deserve to know what happened.  How.  I shall try to be as accurate as possible.  And then I will explain…myself.”

He told her everything, everything he knew, from the afternoon he watched her outside her home and walked away on a terrible presumption, to the moment Voldemort cast the killing curse and Nagini claimed her body.  And then the aftermath.

But there was no change, no response from her, so he went on.  “There were so many deaths in the end that when my time came, I was quite resigned to it.  Not glad of it, but I …I didn’t fight it.  As it happened, against all odds, even against my will, I was saved.  After many years, the news of you, of us, and of Servius, was revealed to me.  I found the memories and I returned them; I have them now, all of them, safe.  But the realisation of what happened to you, and my part in it, and the mistakes I made, I haven’t – I haven’t -,”

He paused, rolled his lips together.  “And now Servius.”

Finally there was a reaction.  The warmth withdrew from him and he expected the cold to replace it, but instead he saw the air before him start to shimmer and become silvery in hue, and then he realised a shape was forming, he saw the contours of a face, all in shades of white and grey.  Transfixed, he saw the familiar lines and conformation of Charity materialise, although insubstantial, almost as if she were made of mist.  He breathed her name, a realisation out loud.

“Severus?” she asked.  Her voice sounded echoey, a hundred miles distant, and yet clear. 

“I can see you.  A version of you.”  When he reached out, however, there was still nothing to touch.

“Servius – I have…it is like a chain, a weight, it drags on me and I can’t leave.”

He tried to decipher what she meant.  “Servius is chaining you…?”

She ebbed and then returned.  “Can you hear them?”

“Hear…?  Hear what?”

“The shrieking?  They wail and they…cry, they weep constantly…”

“Who?  Who is crying?”

“The black light.  It’s closer than before.”

“I don’t know the black light,” said Snape, fear trickling down his spine.

“In the black light…they – they’re screaming.”

Her form drifted apart and evaporated.  To the empty room, Snape cried: “Charity?  Charity come back, who are they?”

But he thought he knew.  He thought he knew what was coming for Charity.

Servius was the chain?  Servius held her, trapped?  Had his confession made no difference at all?  And what of the prophesy?

“What should I do?” he said, his voice raised and frustrated.  “The Ouroboros – what does it mean?  Where is it?”

But the archive was silent, silent and cold.  It wasn’t until he picked up the parchment, ready to leave, that he saw the message:

_Severus_

_Please_

_Help me._

_Speak the truth._

 

* * *

 

December, and the last two weeks of term.  Attention turned to exams before Christmas holidays broke up the school, and, caught unawares, the teachers suddenly concentrated on revision and review.  But the demands on their students were sorely tested by an unrelenting Quidditch schedule that had players practicing three or four times a week, rain or shine.  If there was cloud then sleet would surely follow; if it was clear skies, there was an overnight freeze that turned toes black within minutes and at dawn, the window-panes were needle-laced with frost.  To keep the castle warm, elves were on constant rotation to supplement firewood from the wood stacks in the basement stores.

In Quidditch, the Slytherin Senior team beat Gryffindor, and then the Junior team beat Ravenclaw and this bounty of House points, along with those earned for their bonfire, boosted them from last place to third and occasioned much celebration in the Common Room, and the members of the SHC brainstormed other ways in which the serpents might apply their cunning and ingenuity to the challenge of beating Gryffindor to second place.  The way the Hufflepuffs had performed in both Quidditch and Hogwarts Values Opportunities (or HVOs as they were known) placed them in first place by such order of magnitude that the Slytherins had sensibly made their aims achievable for the time they had left.

Snape was kept busy during the last few days, wanting things tidied away before he departed for Malfoy Manor.  While many teachers would be staying, just as many were returning home, including the Hellmanns – stories of their superior Christmas traditions having stifled the flow of numerous staffroom conversations for several evenings before – and Sinistra left soon after.  She went without warning, a quick memo from her sent winging its way to Snape one afternoon as he locked up the dungeon classroom for the last time.  When he opened it, his heart clenched at the simple words: “Merry Christmas to you and Servius.  See you in the New Year.  Aurora.”  He hadn’t expected it, but part of him missed her already.

Longbottom had declared his intention to say, loftily claiming his unwavering support to the Headmistress.   Snape didn’t believe it for a second but cursed inwardly knowing that Longbottom would use the long stretches of relative privacy to pursue his iniquitous objectives.  So far, all Snape’s spying and discreet watching, scant as it was, had uncovered precisely nothing, until the day arrived when he and Servius had to leave.

When Snape told Servius to pack his things for a trip of around five days, Servius had later turned up at Snape’s quarters with his rucksack containing a toothbrush, some books and one change of underwear.  Snape sighed deeply and went with him to his dorm, pulled out the trunk beneath his bed and dropped everything Servius owned into it, then _Reducio’d_ it with a wave of his wand.  Then he picked up the trunk and handed it to Servius.  “It’s easier this way.”

“Täne?” Servius asked.

“No.  It’s only a few days,” said Snape, his voice leaden.  More for his own benefit, he added: “You never know, you might have fun.”

“I don’t care,” said Servius, shrugging.  “William’s gone to America cause of his Dad and… loads of people have gone.”

“You mean Miss Hellmann?”

Servius stared at him aghast as if he’d suggested conducting foul experiments on flies.  “What?  No!”

_You protest too much_ , thought Snape, pushing down a smile and remembering his own desolation when Lily had – with rather callous joy, he reflected now – decamped for some extended family Christmas gathering in the Cotswolds. “We leave in half an hour.”

And then, at the appointed time on turn of the winter solstice, the Snape’s trudged down the hill to the Hogwarts Gates, the horizon so bleak and niveous it was indistinguishable where it met the rising mist from land.  Like gunshots in the oppressive quiet came the sound of ice cracking, dead branches snapping and some creature in the Forbidden Forest scurrying from sight.  “Shortest day of the year,” remarked Snape, his words creating a thick vapour.  “My feet are frozen.”  Servius glanced at him but didn’t answer.   When they got to the gate, he felt eyes on him and turned around.  Fisk was standing there, a few feet away and regarding him, slowly wagging his tail.  Servius gave him a fond pat on the head before putting his hand on Snape’s arm and shutting his eyes tight.  “To Malfoy Manor,” Snape sighed aloud, and they vanished with a crack.

 

* * *

 

No expense, predictably, had been spared when it came to creating a Christmassy ambience at the Manor, and if Narcissa’s objective was to show Servius how the season was done in the Wizarding world, then she could consider her efforts well worthwhile.  The boy had to remember to shut his mouth more than once as his saucer-like eyes tried to absorb the opulence, the grandeur, the whole spectacle.  She somehow managed to achieve extravagance without becoming excessive, Snape had to credit her, she never allowed her pageantry to run to gaudy. 

They were welcomed by Malfoy and Narcissa, both wearing cream, fur-lined cashmere, who had elves vanish their cases, coats and other belongings to a destination somewhere within the extensions of the manor.  While another elf brandished a tray of warming hot toddies and flutes of champagne, Draco, Astoria and baby Scorpius made an appearance, and for the next hour or so - having walked through from the entrance hall to the rich, white interior of the formal lounge - they stood before the enormous fireplace and made the kind of conversation that has to be at once cheerful and friendly, but tactfully avoid the yawning tar-pits that oozed just below the surface.  And they were everywhere.  But Servius didn’t know about them, he had no idea about the conversational gymnastics going on around him, and finding the discussion rather adult and dreary, he plonked his empty mug down hard on the glass-topped coffee table and wandered away to closer inspect the breathtakingly dressed twelve-foot Christmas tree  before the bay window.

Narcissa watched him and then she turned to Draco.  “Darling – we have an hour of light left - why don’t you show Servius the Quidditch pitch?”

Snape’s brows raised but he made no comment as Draco nodded, knocked back his champagne and said to Astoria with his hand at her back, “Will you and munchkin be alright if I spend some time with our rather bored-looking guest?”

Astoria nodded and used the interval to make her own murmured apology before disappearing with the baby. 

To Snape, Malfoy gestured to the white living room set and took his favoured sofa corner.  Snape took an opposite armchair.

“Severus, are you going to tell us now?  Who is the mother of Servius?  Cissy hasn’t stopped guessing since the Christening.”

Narcissa, next to him, looked flustered and said quickly: “It’s just he takes after you so, Severus!  It’s as though his poor mother had no influence whatsoever!”

Snape slowly shook his head.  “Untrue. I see her in him all the time.”

“She must have been very pretty,” said Narcissa coyly.  “I can’t _imagine_ how you kept her secret.”

Snape didn’t respond and looked at the fire, and after a moment of silence, Malfoy placed a hand on Narcissa’s thigh.  “There, my darling, is your answer.  Severus won’t divulge and you are just going to have to consider yourself foiled.  I expect the subject is a sore one with Servius?”

“It is…sensitive,” said Snape.

Narcissa contemplated him for a moment and then stood and extended her hand to him.  “Come.  Let’s see if the boys have found their way to the Quidditch pitch.  You can see them from the window in the South Room.”

Snape accepted her hand and rose, and he and Malfoy followed Narcissa across the hall and into another grand, ground-floor room that was becoming dark as dusk fell.  A panoramic window faced the beautiful, winter-stark, grounds to the rear of the property, comprised of lightly wooded, softly rolling hills in the distance.  Visible to the east, and bordered by tall, stately poplars, were the oval dimensions and hooped goalposts of a private Quidditch pitch, and Snape could just make out the twin tracks of Draco and Servius in the smooth, freshly laid sand.  The moisture-heavy air rendered the scene almost opaque, as though peering through a fine cloud, and as they waited for signs of life, Malfoy squinted up at the drab sky.  “Supposed to snow later,” he remarked.

“Oh look!  There they are,” said Narcissa, pointing, and sure enough, Servius walked into the view in the centre of the pitch watching Draco, who was airborne, and, judging by his dangling legs and cruising speed when he swung into view, was providing instruction.  “I think they’re going to get on famously,” she added, and offered Snape a wide smile.

Snape nodded although didn’t comment, still uncertain about Draco’s feelings towards him.  “Relax, Severus,” said Narcissa.  “You’re among friends here.  Servius will have a wonderful time.  Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

The evening carried through easily into dinner at the round table, and then chocolates in the lounge.  Astoria and the baby disappeared again, and as grown-up conversation droned on, Servius appeared to set himself a challenge to pilfer every chocolate in the tray, as if the adults wouldn’t notice the rapidly diminishing contents, and eventually dozed off on the corner lounge chair.  When he began to snore softly, Snape conceded it was time for bed.

He roused Servius sufficiently to propel him along the hallways to their adjoined rooms in the east wing, and, with hushed murmurs, helped the boy find his pyjamas and make a token effort to brush his very sugar-laden teeth in their shared bathroom.  When it was time to leave him, Servius was more awake and Snape felt his eyes on him from the deep feather pillow.

“Want me to leave a candle?” Snape asked.

“Yes.  Just in case I need to get up.”

“I’ll knock on the door when it’s time to get dressed in the morning, alright?”

“Sir - ,”

“Dad.”

“Sir, Draco said you were his teacher.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Was he in any gangs?  Like bad gangs?”

Snape gave a tired sigh but sat on the edge of Servius’ bed.  He hesitated to answer, not knowing what the pair had talked about, but it might simply allude back to the Dark Mark Servius had seen.

“The Malfoys know lots of people…lots of them.  And like people everywhere, some are good and some are bad.  But most people can be both.  Draco, in his heart of hearts, tries to do what’s right.  He tries to please…he found that way for himself, which is better than most people who just do what they’re told.  He was prepared to explore when he was growing up, he ventured into territory that would scare many people.  He wanted to learn for himself the difference between right and wrong, and I believe he is a stronger man today because of it.”

Servius listened closely, then said, “I do that too.”

Snape grunted laughter.  “Yes.  That’s a good point. It is an affliction of many Slytherins.”  He patted the bedcover above Servius’ leg and then rose again to leave.

“Sir?”

“Yes Servius?” Spoken with a hint of impatience.

“Do you think I’ve got talent?”

Snape frowned.  “Where did that come from?  Draco?”

“No, sir.  From Madam Cropper.  She said I’ve got a lot of talent, but I don’t feel like it.”

Snape looked at his son, buried under layers of sumptuous linen and duck-down covers, and wondered how on earth Servius could come to believe he lacked talent.  Was he fishing for compliments?  But his eyes, though sleepy, seemed genuine.

“Servius, believe me when I tell you this, your potential is profound.  All the teachers have said that to me – that’s not just my partial opinion as your father.  You have the makings of a very fine wizard indeed, and not just of magic, you have a clever brain.  You simply need to learn how to channel it.”

“Professor Longbottom said I have talent?

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t be able to manage Herbology,” replied Snape, then muttered, “It was his only talent.” Then he extinguished two candles, just leaving the one glowing sconce by the door through to his room.  “Good night, now.  Where’s your wand?  Under your pillow?”

Servius nodded.  “Night.”

Snape went through to his own room, gently shutting the door, his mind reflecting on their conversation all the while he readied for bed.  And when finally he lay down on the most comfortable mattress he thought he’d ever been on, his thoughts turned to Sinistra, and wondered where she was.  It felt like she should be here.

 

* * *

 

“There.  A winter wonderland,” pronounced Narcissa at breakfast the following morning, pulling back the carefully arranged curtains in the dining room to display in full the view over the expansive entrance grounds.  It was dazzling.  The snow, though not deep, was still pristine, and blanketed everything like icing.  In comparison, Snape thought, the snow in Scotland was somehow too wild, it had a vaguely dangerous way about it, whereas at Malfoy Manor the scene was storybook, down to the icicles suspended below the tiers of the ornate fountain.

“You’ll have to go sledding!” Narcissa continued, smiling at Servius as he gaped out the window.  Draco was at the buffet and piling his plate.  “Dray-dray, do we still have the sled?”

“I’ll send the elves to find it,” Malfoy said, dismissively.  “Now, today.” He leaned back in his seat and poured himself and Snape a large, steaming coffee.  “Narcissa is taking Astoria and the baby to Diagon for some last-minute shopping.  So the question is, what do we lads want to do to keep ourselves out of trouble?”

“Of course there’s sledding while the snow’s fresh,” said Draco, sitting at the table.  “But I also have plans for Servius in flying.  I think you’ll find us outdoors for most of the day,” he said, and winked at Servius, who winked back, somewhat clumsily around a mouthful of pancakes.

“Lucius,” said Snape.  “I wondered if I might have some unfettered access to your library.  I am researching a subject, and I know your collection is unparalleled.”

“By all means,” said Malfoy, smiling.  “It will be nice to see the dust blown off some of those tomes.  I’ll keep you company, and I might even be able to help – a few of the priceless books are in vaults and locked display cases.  What are we researching?  I’m all ears.”

Snape hadn’t counted on the question.  “Oh, uh, a bit of Greek mythology -,”

“Did you say Greek mythology!” responded Malfoy, astounded.  “Merlin’s beard, my all-time favourite.  I thought it was going to be about mouldy old potions.  Did you know, I brought some fabulous Mycenaean antiques back.  I daresay we shall be having quite the time of it.  Don’t hurry back, dear.”

And so, after breakfast while elves scurried to and fro, cleaning, lighting fires, unearthing long-abandoned sleds, the members of the household disbanded on their various endeavours.  Snape and Malfoy headed for the library - a room untouched by the re-decorating spree which had fated the rest of Malfoy Manor, probably because the room was already magnificent.  It featured vaulted ceilings and boasted a gallery level, attained by a spiral staircase.  Engraved oak and mahogany bookcases lined the entire length of wall on either side, only interrupted by a tall, stone fireplace which currently roared and spat, and in glass cabinets and on plinths were antiques and statues.  A free-standing globe beside a leather-topped desk were placed at one end of the room, and at the other, a pair of facing chesterfield sofas.  When Snape stopped admiring it, his head swam with envy, but Malfoy seemed utterly indifferent, appearing more interested in ensuring Snape was warm enough or had enough light.  He was animated about the prospect of researching a subject, chatting away about his catalogue and indexing system, and Snape became aware that Malfoy had everything, everything a man could want – except purpose.

Snape lapsed, from habit, into teacher mode, talking to Malfoy as if he were a seventh-year, sending him on short errands and having him arrange his collection on the desk in chronological order.  Snape didn’t realise how much he underestimated the man until Malfoy said, as he hastened down the spiral staircase with a large volume, “Dragons balls – I didn’t realise this one is only in Greek.  Do you read?”

“Uh, no,” said Snape, disappointed.  The text Malfoy was holding seemed particularly promising.  “I believe there is a charm that can -,”

“Oh I can read for you,” said Malfoy.  “I read Greek.  And Latin.  A smattering of Hebrew.”

Snape paused and too late realised he’d been staring.  “I – I didn’t know that.”

“I had very fine tutors.  Father insisted.  My attendance at Hogwarts was more for socialisation than education.  Not that I have any doubts about the quality of the educators there, of course.  Except perhaps for Hagrid, and even in his case, none can question his passion for the subject.”

“Quite,” murmured Snape, blinking.

“Now.  What is it in here you wanted translated?”

Snape studied him a moment, wondering if he had more of an ally than he’d first appreciated.  “Lucius, have you come across the Ouroboros?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened.

 

* * *

 

Servius pointed the broom down, aiming for the centre of the pitch where Draco stood.  “Lean back – lean back!” called Draco, waving his arms about.  Against the white snow, Draco was dark and distinct, wearing a fur-lined grey overcoat and bomber hat.  Servius’ beanie was hardly any protection from the cold, but the flying goggles at least kept the sting out of his eyes.

“Slow!  Slow!  Slow!” Draco now yelled as Servius came careening in, and started jogging backwards, crossing his arms.  “Lift! Lift!  Like I showed you -,”

Too late.  Servius piled headlong into the drifts of snow mounded against the barricade.  He’d had enough wherewithal to put his heels down for a skid, then launched free of the broom before bouncing forward and landing on his back in the snow.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked breathlessly, and grasped Servius’ hand to pull him up.  Concern was etched across his features, but he relaxed when he saw Servius was grinning. 

“That was my best landing yet!” Servius said, shoving up his goggles.  “Did you see that?!”

“Of course,” said Draco.  “It was hard to miss.  Merlin, look at your fingers, they’re white.”

“They’re okay.”

“Your father will string me if you get frostbite.”

“No he won’t.  Can I go again?”

Draco took a deep breath.  “One more, eh? Sun’s gone in.”

After another lesson, Draco’s enthusiasm had waned significantly, and he was jumping up and down on the spot with his hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep warm.  As Servius achieved a slightly less breakneck crash landing, and came towards Draco carrying the broom, his eyes were like black coals against the bloodless skin of his face.  And still he smiled.  “It’s alright, innit?” said Servius.  “Riding a broom?  It’s fun.”

“Innit?  _Isn’t_ it.”

“Shut up, you’re worse than Professor Snape.”

“What do you call him that for?” 

Servius shrugged, and they made briskly for the path that led back to the house.  “Why don’t you call him Dad?”

“He wasn’t my Dad for eleven years, so why should I start calling him that now?”

Draco raised thoughtful brows.  “I suppose that’s a point…a little extreme though.  If Scorpius did that I would be mortified.”

“Not if you hated him,” Servius retorted.  They had reached the summer house that also served as the storage room for the Quidditch equipment.  Draco deftly levitated the broom onto its placeholder hooks and then faced Servius. 

“I don’t think your father hates you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“He does.  He told me he didn’t want me to come to Hogwarts.  He said he wouldn’t fight a duel for me.   He didn’t even remember my birthday.”  There was no disputing the anger and defiance in Servius’ words, even though he uttered them through chattering teeth, but Draco was not convinced.

“He’s just not the cuddly type,” he said.  “Some Dads are like Hagrid, and some are like…yours.  They’re all different.  But I know Professor Snape even better than you do and…and I can tell that he cares.  I owe a lot to your father, maybe even my life.”

“How?”

“I had some -,” Draco made some sweeping finger marks down his front.  “Cuts.  I was bleeding.  He healed me.”

They exited the summer-house and trotted up the steps to the conservatory.  “My point is – just because he doesn’t buy you brooms for your birthday doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do anything for you.”

Once they were inside, Draco took Servius’ jacket, gloves, scarf and boots and handed them to an elf who hurried to greet them.  “Then why,” said Servius, “didn’t he come to see me even once when I was little.  Not even once?”

And Draco frowned, perturbed.  “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Malfoy’s face transformed into the image of pent up enthusiasm.  “Forget the books, Severus – follow me.” And he turned and headed directly to a bookcase next to the fireplace.

Snape followed, and was momentarily startled when Malfoy pushed the bookcase to reveal a hidden door, but then, of course Malfoy had hidden rooms.  He probably had dozens.  It was more of a surprise that it was as mundane as an old-fashioned hinged door and not magical.

“Down here,” called Malfoy, lighting his wand and highlighting a small landing that preceded a short flight of wooden steps.  Snape _lumos-_ ed his own wand as he tagged after, but Malfoy soon had candelabras alight and amongst the deep shadows, Snape was able to quickly ascertain the nature of the room.

“My Gringotts away from Gringotts,” explained Malfoy, as Snape observed bank upon bank of safes, iron plated chests and strongboxes.  Snape was reminded of the archive at Hogwarts by the similar accumulation of peculiar and unusual treasures, some stored with care under glass, others stashed on the floor or on shelves.  “The Lestrange Vault may as well have been a pick ‘n’ mix store for all the security those bastard Goblins afforded it.  Dragons.  Useless.”

“Indeed,” said Snape, frowning.  “What’s this got to do with the Ouroboros, Lucius?”

“Ah hah – this!” said Malfoy, his face slightly eerie as it was under-lit.  He searched the stacks, muttering to himself, then brought forth an antique strongbox and with his wand, set in motion a series of complicated, grinding, interconnected mechanisms that served to keep it locked.  When he opened the lid, a folded sheaf of very aged, delicate parchment was revealed.

“Ugh – I loathe to manhandle it” murmured Malfoy, straightening the document against its dark felt casing.  The image on it was faint, and Malfoy was unwilling to hold a candle directly over it, so once again Snape lit his wand and Malfoy handed him a magnified eye-piece.  “That is either the original design, or a depiction of, the Ouroboros above the temple of the dead, its founding place, around 900 BC.   A snake guards it because the ancients believed a snake could never sleep, and so long as the Ouroboros remained in place, the dead were peaceful and rested.  Can you see anything interesting about it?”

It was the same figure-eight serpent eating its own tail with scales and markings in exquisite detail.  Through some magical trickery the snake seemed to flow, like a reptilian river, in a continuous rhythm of being consumed and regenerated.  “Well…it’s moving,” replied Snape. “Wait – its eye.  That’s the -,”

“Resurrection Stone.  Watch -,”

The eye, on closer inspection, had the planes and angles of a finely sculpted gem and at intervals would rotate counter-clockwise three times then stop.

“Why is it doing that?”

“My belief is that’s how the Resurrection Stone works.  To bring back their dead, the ancients would rotate the stone and a resident of the tomb would be, well, resurrected.”

Snape’s brows arched.  “That is quite an artefact, Lucius.”

Malfoy smiled widely, but secretly.  “I know I can trust you, Severus.”  He carefully restored the document and re-locked its box.  “Some of these things I trade at Auction every now and then, but some – some are too precious.”

Snape wondered what Malfoy would think if he learned the stone was somewhere on the grounds of Hogwarts.  “What happens if the stone is removed from the Ourobros?”

“It already has been removed.  It’s lost.  All three of the Stones are.  _Supposedly_ are.  But in answer to your question: devastation.  A pestilence across the land sort of thing.”

“Who are the ancients you keep mentioning?”

“Ah.  Those who followed Psyche, the immortal, and she who stole the stone for herself.  Assorted deities, satyrs and centaurs.”

He moved across the room and attended to the workings of a different, bigger case, again with magical locks.  The opened lid this time revealed a large fragment of a stone carving.  “Severus, soak this up.  Look at it.  Magnificence.  Have you ever beheld anything quite so…incredible?”

Snape held his wand forth to examine the carving which, while elegantly and finely rendered, depicted the rather grotesque facial features of some form of being, snarling, part reptile, part man, and embroiled around the head, twisting and twining in every direction, were snakes. 

“Makes you proud to be a Slytherin, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry Lucius – he’s hideous.  Typhoeus?”

“The same.  I never could warm to Zeus – but this chap: he took some imagination.” Malfoy regarded the carving fondly for a few more minutes.  “All three stones were his.  If the Triad can be reunited, so the legend goes, Typhon will rise again.”

“You’d like that, would you?” Snape said drily.

“I took this,” continued Malfoy, absorbed, “from the excavation on Eriopsis.  I believe the wizard who was buried there was one of the Mages of Alexon.  If he had this carving in his tomb, then he would have been a Typhonite, possibly a leader.”

“Typhonite?”

“The followers.  They live now, they still worship Typhoeus.  Their stronghold is in Romania, and they appear as monks, wearing a habit and cowl to hide their heads.  They have dark magic, blood magic, and are believed to practice sacrifice and all sorts of rumours abound.  They have many reptilian characteristics – I believe they speak Parseltongue.”

“Cold blooded?” Snape asked, only half serious.

Malfoy smiled at him.  “I don’t know, Severus, I’ve never had the pleasure of their acquaintance.  I do apologise, I have distracted you from your research.  I hope some of this has helped?”

Snape _nox_ -ed his wand and slipped it away.  “Exceedingly, Lucius.”

 

* * *

 

There was sleet in the morning of Christmas Eve, and it washed the fine snow away.  Servius had dressed for more flying practice, and ate his breakfast with hopeful speed, but an unshaven Draco, in his velvet dressing gown, barely looked out the dining room window before saying to those assembled: “Maybe later, Sev – if nobody minds, I’ll take some breakfast up to Astie and come down later.  Scorpius had one of his…better nights.”

As he departed the dining room with some tea and toast, Narcissa smiled apologetically to Snape and Servius.  “Scorpius is a bit colicky.  It’s very hard on Astoria and Draco does a lot of the cuddling and night feeding.”

“He’s a good father to the child,” commented Malfoy, who had not paused from his vegetarian kedgeree (eggs were permitted).

Servius looked crestfallen and so Snape said, “If the sleet clears, I’ll take you out.”

“You don’t know how to fly!” snapped Servius, frowning furiously.

Malfoy chuckled.  “Well in fact he does.  But if you’d rather wait for Draco I’ll see if I can’t talk him into a bit of coaching later. You know what this weather calls for?  Games.  Finish your breakfast and we’ll convene in the games room.”

“At four we need to come together to Floo to Chudley,” said Narcissa, who, Snape noticed, consumed nothing for breakfast but coffee.  “There are carols in the Church, and we give our donation to the parish.”

The morning was whiled away teaching Servius chess, billiards (the magical variant involved using wands instead of cues and the white balls were enchanted), darts and table Quidditch.  The sky cleared and the slush began to melt and Malfoy, a keen amateur meteorologist, said: “Oooh, big frost in the morning.”

At the enormous sigh emitted by Servius, Malfoy glanced at the window.  “Shall we get some fresh air?  You can still practice flying, Servius.  Your father and I will stand by and shout advice.  I wasn’t bad on a broom in my day.”

Bundled up in coats, cloaks, hats, scarves, gloves and boots, the three went out to the Quidditch pitch and Servius was soon up and about, following hollered instructions from Malfoy to go left, right, up or down.  Snape stood beside him, his mind wandering to Charity and then Sinistra, when Malfoy took a more conspiratorial tone.  “Severus, I just want to give you advance warning that Cissy and I heard from…family last night and, well we have an extra guest for lunch tomorrow.”

Snape raised semi-interested brows, the only other guest he was aware of being Andromeda. “Oh yes?  Anyone I know?”

“Indeed,” Malfoy looked uncomfortable, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and keeping his eyes trained on Servius.  “You’ll remember Rabastan?  Roddy’s brother?”

Snape’s eyes widened and he turned to stare at Malfoy.  “ _Rabastan?_   He’s one of the -,”

“Escaped. I know.  Cissy and I have known for some time.  He’s alone, Severus, I couldn’t very well say no.”

“He’s a war criminal, Lucius.  The Auror Office -,”

“I’m quite aware of all that, dear boy.”

“You’re asking me to be complicit in his evasion?”

Malfoy at last met his eyes.  “Yes.  That is precisely what I’m asking.  It’s Christmas, Severus.  And furthermore, I’m asking that we have an armistice because of it.”

Snape clenched his jaw.  Rabastan Lestrange.  The Wanted posters in the MoM were starting to droop and fade they had been hanging so long.  The Ministry speculated he’d left the country permanently, but Snape had known, had instinctively known, that Rabastan had gone into hiding when Snape’s allegiances were published.  He was number one on Snape’s personal hit list.

“You do remember, Lucius, he was one of those involved in the Longbottom trial.”

“Of course.  I’m not defending him -,”

“He attempted to kill the Granger girl. He boasted – Bellatrix did.”

“These are in the past, Severus, all in the past.  As is your…conversion.”

Snape scuffed the ground then added heatedly, “He coordinated quite a few of the tortures at Hogwarts.  Scrimgeour?”

For the first time since having arrived at the Manor, Malfoy revealed his razor edge.  “He is also family, Snape.  And a Slytherin brother.  I do not turn those away at Christmas, and…and I won’t do it to Cissy.  He is a Death Eater no more – only a man.  Same as you or I.”

Snape breathed out heavily.  “And _after_ Christmas Day?”

“As you say - he’s wanted, Severus, I’ve told him he’s on his own.  Do what you need to do.”

 

In the late afternoon, a barefoot elf emerged carrying a tray of three tall mugs that steamed.  Servius was brought to ground and given his containing warm eggnog, but Malfoy and Snape had strongly laced hot toddies.

The elf bowed slightly to Malfoy. “Master, Madam requests your company if you can be spared.”

“Thank you,” said Malfoy, and sought to be excused from Snape and Servius, who stood awkwardly as they watched their host leave.  It was one of those moments during a prolonged stay when guests become conscious of their presence, that they were unintentionally disrupting family proceedings, that difficulties were being concealed.  Without discussing it, Snape and Servius knew better than to go inside.

“Your, um, flying has improved dramatically,” Snape said to his son, who was already draining his mug.  Servius ran his sleeve over his mouth and said, “Yeah.  Wish I could practice more at school.”

“Unless you go back to a Muggle school.”

“Yep.  I’d probably miss it at first,” he glanced up keenly at Snape.  “Thought I wasn’t allowed to go.”

“Well given recent events, the decision may be taken out of my hands.  I have heard from the Headmistress that your meetings with Madam Cropper achieved little.”

A short silence, then Servius said, “I didn’t know how to answer her questions.  It was dumb.”

They wandered to the Summer House so that Servius could return his broom, and then, for want of anywhere else to go, they each took seats on the cushioned iron chairs stored inside.  There was no heating, and they hugged their coats about them.

Snape’s mind turned reflexively to the issue of Lestrange and he presumed they would each wait in silence until they were retrieved, but he was surprised by Servius stating: “I miss my mates.”

“The Mathias boy?”

“No.  William.  And Tāne.  And…some of the other kids.”

“Oh I see.  At Hogwarts.  Well, we’ll be back soon.” He considered Servius a moment, then added, “Did you also mean Miss Hellmann?”

“No!  Geez, why do you keep bringing her up?  I told you – I hate her guts.”

“Of course.”

After another moment of quiet, Servius said: “I haven’t ever had Christmas away from home before.”

Snape nodded.  “I’m sure you’ll be so busy tomorrow you’ll scarcely notice.”

“I sent cards to Ma and Pa but I haven’t heard back from them.  Draco let me use their owl.”

“They’re probably just not sure how to send something by owl.”

Servius didn’t look mollified.  He stared at his boots and then once more piped up.  “Did you send a card to Professor Sinistra?’

“Ah…I regret I did not.”

“I thought she was your friend?”

“Well, she is, she is a friend -,”

“Bit more than a friend I reckon,” said Servius, with mischief in his eyes. 

“Servius! Mind!” said Snape, but there was no real vitriol in it.

It had amused the boy.  He snickered.  Then he said, “Did you ever love anyone that wasn’t mum?  Did you have a girlfriend before her?  You know...when you were my age?”

Snape frowned.  “What made you ask that?”

“I just…you know…wasn’t sure if you, you know, if you like a girl what -,”

“Merlin’s beard – someone _has_ taught you about the birds and the bees?”

“You mean sexing?”

Snape choked a little.  “Uh, yes I suppose -,”

“Yeah!  God, you’re not going to have _that_ talk to me!  Muggles have the internet you know.”

“Good,” breathed Snape.  “So you know all about that then?  Because you’re not to do it.”

“Ergh, no way, I’m not doing that with anyone.  It looks disgusting!” They lapsed in a reverie during which Snape thought about Sinistra and Servius presumably thought about Amelie, because he then asked, “But just say…just say you _did_ like a girl…should you tell her?”

Snape looked at him levelly, but his mind was flung back, vaults in his head swinging open, Lily pouring out.  “Does she like you?” he asked eventually.

Servius shrugged.  “I don’t know…I guess…”

“There’s no rush, Servius.  You have years and years to…fall in love.  Sometimes, at your age, it can feel like love but -,” he paused, he thought for a long time how to phrase it, his gaze turned inward.  “Unless they love you back it could…it could be an infatuation.  And I’m not discounting that, infatuation is real, it can be very real.  It can break your heart as profoundly as love.”

“How do you know the difference?”

Snape raised his eyes, but they were unseeing.  “I loved your mother and she completed me.  She made me a better man.  I thought I knew what love was, but I didn’t until her.”

“Because of another girl you were infatuated with?”

Snape nodded slowly.  “When I was your age, in fact.  She was beautiful and clever, and very talented.  I loved her but it was unrequited.  I coveted her, I couldn’t - ,”

Snape suddenly realised he’d been talking out loud and clamped his mouth shut. 

“You couldn’t what?” demanded Servius.

“Don’t be nosy,” Snape retorted.  “Be happy with knowing you were the result of true love.”

“Was she at Hogwarts?  What was her name?”

“Her name? Why do you need to know that?”

And as Snape watched, an expression of dawning realisation was cast over Servius’ face like a shadow, and then in his black eyes as he refocussed on his father.  “Then…just tell me the first letter.”

“What’s going on, Servius?”

“Was it – did her name begin with L?”

No words were exchanged.  Snape gave the merest, surprised frown and Servius’ eyes widened in shocked response.  He blinked. Then he stared hard at the floor.

“Who’ve you been talking to?  Was it Draco?  He thinks he knows things -,”

“No.  It wasn’t Draco, it was – it was nothing. Lucky guess.”

“It doesn’t matter now. It was long ago.  Long, long ago.”

“When you were a student.”

“Yes.  When I was a student.”

Servius seemed to be breathing rather rapidly, his breath cloudy before him, but all the vitality had dissipated.  They were alone, and confiding, and talking about love.   Snape stared hard for a few minutes at his son, then out the small, sash window of the summerhouse at the bedraggled garden bed outside, at some drooping nettles amongst the bare roses.

He took a deep breath, it quavered at its peak, his heart suddenly pounding.  “Servius, there’s some questions you’ve asked…about your mother -,”

Servius glanced up quickly and he seemed rather wild about the eyes.  Snape swallowed.

“– about what happened to her -,”

Servius stared, unmoving, utterly silent but his chest visibly rose and fell.

“Severus?!” An abrupt shout rent the air outside.  “SERVIUS?”

It was Malfoy, in his winter cloak and a felt fedora.  A tap came on the summer house door, presumably from his walking stick. “Are you in there?  Hello?”

“Lucius,” returned Snape, and immediately stood and opened the door.  “We were – we were just chatting.”

“Oh!  So sorry to interrupt.  We searched the entire house – I was getting worried!”

“We thought – never mind, we’ve had a pleasant discourse.”

He glanced back at Servius to discover him staring, as if he’d quite forgotten the use of his eyelids.

“We’re preparing to leave; for Chudley. Carols?” said Lucius.

“Yes.  Of course.  We’ll be with you directly.”

Snape looked back at Servius, who was now standing in a kind of dismayed panic.  “Now is – not the time, Servius.  We’ll finish this chat…soon.  I promise.”

 


	27. The Confrontation

They did not return from Chudley to Malfoy Manor until midnight, and the beginning of Christmas Day was heralded by all the candles on the Christmas tree glowing and stockings hung from the mantelpiece.  Despite it, Servius was ready to go to bed, however when Snape gently shut his bedroom door behind him, he lay wide awake in his bed wondering anew if it could possibly be true that his father and HBP were one and the same.  If it was, then presumably his father also had the DM tattooed on his wrist, but that tightly buttoned coat made certain that neither he, nor anyone else, could discover that inadvertently.

He hadn’t decided how to process anything through the shock.  His instinctive reaction was dismay, and then anger at feeling tricked; fooled into admiring someone he loathed.  And he knew this was irrational, there was no conspiracy, in fact he knew that if his father was aware that he had the diaries he’d be furious.  But the more he thought about it, the more he decided it must be a mistake.  These were little more than simple coincidences – obviously there was more than one name for a girl beginning with L, there would have been dozens of Slytherin boys the same year that his father was at school, and almost certainly more than one of them would have been good at potions and hexing.  A lot of coincidences, that couldn’t be denied, but that was the whole thing about coincidences…

And then what had his father wanted to tell him about his mother?  His mind tried desperately to dwell on it longer, but the endless circuitous questions at last sent him to sleep.

* * *

 

The morning dawned cold but fair and Servius was awake to the sound of the Grandfather clock in the hall chiming seven times.  When he sat up, he saw new clothes had been placed on the wingback chair in his room, one a seasonal-style jumper in Slytherin colours which he presumed was meant for the day, and so he dressed and was ready by the time Snape knocked on the door.  His father scoffed a little at the sight of him.  “No need to shake you awake then.  How long have you been up?”

“Thanks for the jumper.”

“Thank Mrs Malfoy.  No detail too small.”

Everyone had gathered by the time they arrived for breakfast and there were ringing, heartfelt exchanges of Christmas cheer and abundant platters of food on the buffet table.  Afterward, they moved into the main lounge and Servius’ eyes popped when he saw the mass of brightly wrapped presents beneath the tree and inside the bulging stockings.  The ornaments on the tree had now all transformed into chocolate and sugary treats, their extra weight drooping the branches, and ambient carols were faintly heard.

The majority of the presents were for the Malfoys, of course, and Scorpius and Teddy Lupin in particular, a handful left under the tree for their lunch guests later.  Several minutes were set aside as the young parents opened gift after gift for the baby, and Servius’ eyes lingered on a broom handle he could see poking out from among the parcels, having assumed Scorpius would be blessed with his own even though he could barely hold his own head up.

So when the Cerberus Realm, bedecked with a bright, golden, extravagantly tied ribbon (thanks to Narcissa) was handed to Servius by Draco, who nodded approvingly, Servius’ jaw dropped in amazement.  He immediately looked to Snape, who smiled.

“That,” said Draco.  “Is a wicked piece of kit.  Reminds me of when Potter got that bloody Nimbus, remember that Dad?”

Malfoy laughed and stories were traded but Servius didn’t hear them.  He had fallen instantly in love with the broom’s sleek lines, saddles, stirrups and small compass-bearing panel at the head which, Draco informed him knowledgeably, was for navigation.  The Realm could be instructed to locate and travel to a requested destination.

“Read the card,” said Narcissa gently, showing him the little tag which was attached to the ribbon.  He lifted it but before he even read the words, his head suddenly swam violently. 

The handwriting. 

It was his - HBP’s – cramped and untidy, long crosses on the t’s, frequently missed dots on the i’s, certain letter combinations running together.  He recognised his father’s handwriting from the letter he’d sent with Täne, the many marked potions assignments…how on earth had he never made the match before?

The card said standard things and was signed “Dad”, but he breezed over the words.  It was a coincidence too many, and his heart sped up, thinking back on all the times he’d ferreted out the diaries to read late at night: his vicarious joy when HBP had a rare win, his own frustration and anger when HBP suffered injustice, the comfort he often drew from HBP’s frequent rambles about one day finding retribution and satisfaction, of not needing approval, of being stronger in his mind and command of his emotion.

No.  It couldn’t be.  No, no, no.  The initials – what did HBP stand for?  Still a coincidence… _still_ a coincidence.

He looked up again, aware that people were waiting for him to thank his father, but he struggled to speak.  Snape detected something wrong, and his eyes narrowed, the smile disappeared and Servius slightly shook his head.  “Um,” he croaked.  “It’s…it’s…”

“He’s speechless!” declared Malfoy and slapped Servius on the back.  “Well done Severus.  I expect you’ll have to lock that beauty away though or you’ll never see your son again!”

The words were oddly premonitory.

The present-giving carried on, but Servius remained dazed in his seat, the Cerberus placed carefully on the floor beside him, and when Snape was given a gift from the Malfoys, Servius used the moment to openly study his distracted father.  He was trying to imagine him as a teen, in Slytherin uniform, hexing and jinxing and fighting with that same black wand, arguing with the Headmaster, faking permission slips to study in the Dark Arts section of the library, sneaking increasingly rare moments with the Gryffindor girl known as L. 

If that had been his father…what happened?

And across the space of the living room, his stare was met by the black eyes that were his own.  With age, with the moulding of time, with a thousand glares, scowls and frowns behind them, with the careworn cynicism of an unfortunate life, of having witnessed too much death, of too rarely beholding joy, Servius discovered, at the tender age of twelve, how eyes became the window to the soul.  There first had to be a soul to see.  He suddenly saw straight into his father and he couldn’t hold it.  He glanced away.  His father had a giant of a soul, and it was the soul his mother had loved.

“Want to give it a test run?” he heard, and Servius was startled back to the moment.  It was Draco, bending to pick up the broom with a disarming grin on his face.  Around them, present opening now over, people were moving, elves were magicking the room back to order, Scorpius had commenced wailing and everything was dramatically normal again.

“Uh, sure,” said Servius, desperate to be away from Snape, anywhere but where he was.

The broom flew beautifully, and in the pale, limpid mid-morning sunshine, soaring over the glorious landscape of Malfoy Manor, breathing in the frosty air laced with woodsmoke, the turmoil in Servius was too-briefly balmed.  Draco was flying with him, leading the way and frequently checking back to make sure everything was sound.  And it was.  Once or twice Servius applied speed and Draco was unexpectedly forced to race him, and the exhilaration was enough to clear his mind and even bring a rumble of hunger to his stomach.

When they returned to the house, faces pale and pinched with cold, they were greeted with the aromas of a Christmas lunch well underway, and as they hung up their coats and scarves, Narcissa came into the hall and scolded Draco.  “Our visitors have arrived!  Poor Astoria is all alone with the baby!  Into the lounge at once!”

Servius entered the lounge behind Draco to a gathering of adults talking, or at least most of them.  Narcissa swept through to take champagne to “Andromeda”, a lady whom she so resembled that Servius assumed them to be related.  While she had the same elegant, slightly haughty manner as Narcissa, she had light brown hair and softer eyes, and only a flicker of a smile was raised when Narcissa laughed blithely at her own joke. 

 Snape stood next to the fireplace, one hand behind his back, the other – his right, and to his side – flexed slightly as the fingers closed and relaxed repeatedly.  This was a movement that Servius had come to recognise, and signified Snape was within moments of retrieving his wand.  His father had his eyes fixed on the men across the room, the men Draco now joined.  Malfoy was talking to another man that Servius didn’t know, a black-suited man, with dark hair slicked back, who’s bearing was much like his father’s – straight, commanding and firm-jawed.  His arms were folded, and considering he’d just joined the family for Christmas, he wore an expression of severe and flat-eyed antipathy.

When he noticed Servius, he immediately turned his full attention and held his eyes with such intensity that Servius was forced to drop them.  It was as if the stranger knew him.  When he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, he jumped.

“Servius, you sit with me at dinner, d’you hear?” murmured Snape.  “There may be adults talking.  If I tell you to go to your room, you do as I say.”

And, as if augured, a bell rang and Narcissa announced gaily that it signalled time to go through to the dining hall.  But as Servius began to move to follow the others, he felt Snape’s hand grip his shoulder a little tighter.

“What?” he said.

Snape simply shook his head.  “No.  Perhaps…,”

“Severus?” It was Narcissa, looking back, perplexed.  “Are you coming through?”

“We’re not in the round dining room?”

She smiled.  “I’m afraid we’re simply too many.  Don’t worry, the Hall has been warming since this morning.”

It was as if Snape had turned to stone.  Servius almost felt the heat draining away from the hand that still held him.  “Sir?  We need to go in.”

Then he heard Snape swear under his breath and mutter something about skipping lunch and having something brought to their rooms.  Servius glanced up at him, aghast.  “But – there’s a turkey, and ham and -,”

Narcissa appeared to glide across the small space that separated them.  “Severus, I don’t understand.  I’ve seated you well away from Rabastan, if that’s the concern?  Please – poor Servius is virtually salivating, look at him.  Everyone’s waiting.”

The hand on Servius’ shoulder at last lifted, and he saw Snape nod stiffly, but the colour had drained from his face.  Without speaking, they followed Narcissa into the Hall.

The room was vast.  Like the library, it had been bypassed for the great re-decorating, and despite the enormous roaring fire, its mantlepiece dressed with holly and ivy, and magnificent chandelier, it had a grim aspect.  Dour-faced, pointy-hatted-wearing portraits hung at great height, wall-to-wall dark panelling was only lifted from gloom in the corners by a suit of armour or a pale, limbless statue.  The table itself, at which the guests were now collected down one end, stretched almost the length of the room and must have seated twenty or more.  While their places were set upon a tablecloth, the far end showed the exposed wood and it was dark, heavy, almost sinister and polished such that Servius noticed the chandelier was reflected like a mirror.

He and his father sat side by side.  Draco was to his left, Malfoy was at the head of the table, and the man Narcissa called Rabastan was at the far end on the opposite side.  A bassinet containing a warmly wrapped, sleeping Scorpius was situated in a darkened corner.

At first, everybody’s attention was centered on the platters, tureens and bowls of food brought to the table by elves.  Malfoy, wearing a wine-red smoking jacket, carved and plated the roasts, making jovial chatter throughout, while the other guests amused themselves pulling Christmas crackers and sharing jokes or small tricks with their wands.  Draco pulled a cracker with Servius, who in turn pulled his, but when Servius nudged Snape that it was his turn, he shook his head dismissively.  Rabastan noticed and notched a brow.

“Come on, Snape,” he said.  “Why don’t you pull a cracker with the lad?  Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

Snape didn’t respond, his only movement to lift a glass of wine and down the lot in a single draught.

“It’s such a pity little Ted couldn’t come with you, Dromeda,” said Narcissa, passing down plates.  “After all, he went to the Potter’s last Christmas.  They’re so excited for St Nick at that age.”

“Oh they’re having the usual Potter, Weasley affair, cast of thousands, lots of other children,” replied Andromeda, across the table from her sister.  “Potter was asked to light the Christmas tree candles in Diagon Alley, so we went along and he asked me point-blank for Teddy to attend on Christmas Day.  To my face.  I couldn’t very well say that he would be at Malfoy Manor this year instead.”

Malfoy suddenly stabbed the turkey a little sharply causing a wing to go flying, and Narcissa pursed her lips.  “We’re still family,” she replied crisply, and turned to Malfoy.  “Darling, did you take -?”

“Yes, I did,” said Malfoy, and paused to smile around the room.  “Cissy is just asking whether I’ve had my medicine today.  And you’ll all be glad to know that I have.  I shan’t be shaking and crying like last year, don’t alarm yourselves.”

Servius felt rather than saw his father lean toward the decanter and pour another glass of wine.

Rabastan laughed loudly.  “Is that dosage getting larger or smaller, Lucius?  I’m just surprised not to see Delphi here.  When does she get to join the family Christmas?”

Silence around the table, and Rabastan said: “Oh I see.  Should have kept that cupboard shut should I?  Did anyone send her a present?”

“In May, Rabastan.  We go in May and see Delphi then,” said Narcissa, and Andromeda nodded.  “Most of the Blacks and Lestranges are there.  Draco and Astoria have promised to attend next year.”

“Where?  Where do you go?  To Azkaban?” retorted Rabastan loudly.  “Has anyone tried going there?”

“My therapist said I was not to talk about…about that place,” said Malfoy, clunking down the knife loudly.  “Nor Draco.  So please, Rabastan.  We go to the Black Mausoleum as well you know.”

Rabastan swallowed a large glass of wine himself and smiled fiendishly across the table at Snape.  “The best kind of lubricant for these occasions, don’t you think?  It’s just so…awkward, otherwise.”

Snape didn’t answer and, having a plate of delicious smelling food in front of him, Servius lifted his knife and fork, but Draco lightly placed his hand over his to lower it and shook his head almost imperceptibly.  “We say grace,” he whispered.

And surely, Malfoy nodded to those at the table, who lowered their heads and Malfoy murmured: “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful,” and then lifted his eyes and beamed.  “Tuck in!”

For a solid five or so minutes, barely a word was spoken unless it was to comment on the food, and Servius could hardly get enough in at once.  His cheeks bulged.  It was truly delicious, and he’d been hungry for an hour but he noticed his father scarcely touched his food.  Snape still looked wan and his jaw ticked conspicuously.  He shoved the turkey slices and potato about on his plate and when he noticed Servius looking at him, he gave a weak smile.

“This is very tasty,” said Rabastan.  “Hang on to these elves, Lucius, finally got some talent under your roof.”

“They’ve asked for payment,” said Lucius, not looking up.  “I’m holding firm.  The minute they get pay they get spoiled.”

“Have you had any success in finding a nanny-elf?” Andromeda asked Astoria, who shook her head.  “I’ll ask around.  All the good ones are taken.  I see that the Weasleys have started looking as well because I don’t think that Ginny is coping.  My advice is that you _do_ pay – Hermione Granger paid handsomely for help with her little girl, what’s her name?  Rosie?  Didn’t elaborate to the Daily Prophet about it though, I notice.  Didn’t want to appear as though she wasn’t a hands-on mother.”

Servius had no idea what was being talked about and didn’t much care, either.  He had passed his plate back up for second helpings.

“Ginny’s not coping?” said Astoria with interest. “But she’d always projected an image of being so bloody capable at everything.”

“Second one,” remarked Narcissa.  “She’s probably still tired after the first.  That’s why I stopped with just one – if he’s perfect, then why have more?” She simpered at Draco but he maintained focus on his plate.

“Because one day you may lose your only one,” said Andromeda with a rather bitter, rueful smile.

There was a kind of scorched-earth silence around the table for a moment, then Narcissa murmured, “I apologise, Dromeda, that was thoughtless of me.”

“I would think it would be nice to have a brother or sister,” said Draco, attempting lightness.  “But Scorpius is it for us at the minute.”

Malfoy passed the plate down.  “There you go Servius.  Eat up, a boy can’t live on air.”

His plate was mounded with turkey, vegetables and Yorkshire pudding swimming in gravy.  He dived in.  Snape still hadn’t eaten and had even stopped pretending to.  He had his elbow on the table and was massaging his brow.

“So, Stan!” said Malfoy, with forced cheer.  “Who is on your arm this week?”

Rabastan smiled, but did not answer immediately, instead let the question hang while he finished his mouthful and drank more wine.  Clearly wasn’t concerned about losing his audience.  Then with a self-satisfied smirk he replied, “A lovely young pure-blood vixen from our northern climes.  I wouldn’t put her past half my age but she shows the experience of someone twice that.”

There was a choking, coughing sound from Draco, who hastily sipped some water.  Servius was attempting to unravel the sentence in his head but it made no sense.  Beside him, Snape sighed.

“Oh, I see,” said Malfoy, and chewed reflectively.  “Couldn’t make it today?  Or is she down for her midday nap?”

A small round of chuckles and Rabastan smiled coolly, nodding.  “Very good.  She’s more likely to put me down for a midday nap.  And a morning and evening one.”

Servius nudged Draco and whispered, “Why does he need so many naps?”  But Draco just shook his head and continued eating.

“Well if she’s still around this time next year, she’ll be entirely welcome.  We’ll be sure to have a toy under the tree for her,” said Malfoy, earning another titter, although this time Rabastan didn’t smile.

“Things will be different next year,” he said.  “You’ll need the entire table, you can count on it.”

Malfoy stared at him a moment.  “I’m not sure I follow.”

Rabastan looked pointedly at Snape with half-lidded eyes.  “It’ll be ten years.  The sentence is over.  There’ll be a lot out of Azkaban looking for a feed.”

Servius followed Rabastan’s eyes to Snape, who had straightened in his chair.  “You seem very certain.”

“Good behaviour,” replied Rabastan with a sinister smile.  “Thanks to those in power, Azkaban now rewards its inmates for being good boys and girls. Three gold stars and you can go for lunch early.”

“Must be disappointing to think you’ll be going in just when they’re all coming out.”

Servius nudged Draco again.  “What’s Azkaban?”  And again, Draco just shook his head and kept his eyes forward.

Malfoy tinked his fork on the rim of his glass.  “Must I remind you!  There are children present.  I’ll not discuss that here, today.  It’s Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” muttered Rabastan, pouring himself another glass, which he then raised. “To those who can’t be with us.”

Immediately everyone around the table thought of a lost life, literal or otherwise.  The room was full of ghosts, but nobody spoke. 

Eventually Snape leaned toward Servius and spoke in quiet but non-negotiable tones.  “Since you’ve cleared a second plate, why don’t you go for a bit of a walk and settle your stomach.  There’ll be a while before pudding.”

“But –,” began Servius, however Draco interrupted. “Hey, Servius, I just remembered something.  Come with me, I’ve got something to show you.”

The adults watched silently as Draco and Servius scraped back their chairs and departed the room, a whispering between the portraits barely audible above the crackling and snapping of the fire.  On the way out, Narcissa laid her hand on Draco’s arm and said, “Be back in fifteen, please.”  Draco nodded.

“Are we going flying?” Servius asked hopefully, once clear of the suffocating atmosphere.  “It’s in my room, I’ll just get it -,”

“No. No time for flying.  Come with me.”

Draco marched down the hall and Servius trailed behind.  There were a couple of twists and turns and they were in a hallway that Servius hadn’t seen before.  Then Draco approached a shut door.  “This is my old room, when I was at school.  My mum and dad never changed it; saving it for Scorpius I expect.”

With a quick flick of his wand the door opened and Servius, wide-eyed, was led into the abode of a wealthy, student Draco, who went directly to a cupboard and started searching around inside it.   Servius took in his surrounds. 

There was an opulent four-poster bed, replete with battered soft-toy, and other typical furnishings such as a bookcase, a big chest like something off a pirate ship, and a large, varnished desk, above which was a pin board fixed with drawings, designs, notes, plans and photographs.  Some pictures were of Quidditch players, but most of it was indecipherable to Servius.  On a hook, behind the door, hung a black, hooded robe that bore an image on its back: that of a skull with a snake coming out of its jaw. 

On a bedside table was a framed photograph.  The moving photo was of a girl, but not Astoria, as Servius would have expected.  He picked it up and watched the girl in Hogwarts uniform standing on a stage, accepting some kind of prize and smiling widely, then said, “Who’s this?  Was she your girlfriend?”

Draco was reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard, rummaging around inside.  He glanced over his shoulder and when he saw the photograph Servius was holding up, he instantly turned and snatched it off him, scanned it briefly then ripped the picture free of its frame and shoved it deep in a trouser-pocket.  “Balls – where was that?!  Fuck that was close.  Bloody elves. Thanks, Servius, and no, she wasn’t my girlfriend.”

Since he was clearly not intending to elaborate, Servius mooched a little while Draco continued his search through the high shelf.  He became immersed in the pin board until Draco finally said, “A-ha!  Got it!  I knew it was up here.”

Draco absently shut the cupboard door behind him with his foot as he gazed at the item he was now holding, and wandering over to the bed, he sat down, patting the space beside him.  Servius joined him, curious.  Draco held a hard-cover book with a blue-grey cover, and on the front was an old illustration of a black, smoking cauldron.  The title read “Advanced Potion Making”.  With a wry grin, Draco held it up for Servius to see. “Look what I found.”

Servius was crushed. “Oh.  Oh, yeah. Thanks.  I haven’t got that one yet.”

“No you don’t,” said Draco, fully smiling now.  “Someone had it.  Then I had it.  And now it’s yours.  Which is proper.”

“I – I think there’s a new edition now -,” said Servius, not in the least interested in Draco’s mouldering old second-hand textbook.  “So who was that girl?”

“No, no – Servius – you don’t understand yet.  Let me show you.”  He flipped open to the back cover to show the mottled inside page and then tapped an inscription in black ink at the bottom.  

 _This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince_.  It was underlined several times.

The long slash on the t.  The trailing dot on the i.  “Who’s the Half-Blood Prince?” asked Servius, his heart thudding, the answer already known.

“Your dad.  He was the Half-Blood Prince.  This was his book.”

Servius’ mouth went suddenly very dry. The blood seemed to bottom out of him, as if a plug had been pulled.

 H.B.P.  No more coincidences.

“You can have it,” said Draco, handing it to Servius.  “By the time I got it, I couldn’t use it.  But there’s loads of advice in there, tips and what-not.  It could be really useful by the time you get to fifth year.”

“How – how do you know the Half-Blood Prince was…was Professor Snape?”

“I asked my father.  I don’t know why but it was something your Dad liked to call himself when he was a student.”

“Where did you get it?  Was it given to you by…him?”

“It was hidden in a special room at Hogwarts which has…which has gone now.  I was in and out of that room for a bit, waiting.  So I searched around for something to do and came across that.  I didn’t know it was your Dad’s until later; I was going to flog it to a sixth-year because it had all the answers in it.  But now – now I’m glad I kept it.”

Servius thumbed through the pages.  Just like the diaries, it was full of his father’s scrawling, black handwriting.  Derisive exclamation points, whole sections of type-face scratched out, notes drifting up the margins.  Just like HBP of the diaries, the words reflected the temperament of a boy, shortly a man, who knew he was clever, knew all the answers, knew better than his teachers – but lacked the wherewithal to package it to his own advantage.  He had the intelligence, but not the social skills to execute it.  Connecting with others baffled him, exhausted him.  They required him to be someone other than himself, but too often he felt them undeserving of the effort.  HBP was, like him, rejecting others before they could reject him first.

Servius came back to the present and shut the book, then planted a smile on his face.  “Um – thanks.  This is pretty cool.  Guess I’ll find out a lot of, you know, stuff about potions.”

“Don’t tell your Dad you’ve got it.  Surprise him in sixth year!” Draco took the book and shrank it with his wand so Servius could fit it in his pocket.

“Cheat?”

“It’s not cheating if it’s the notes from the Potions Master is it?  Are you a Slytherin or not?”

Servius laughed at that.  “We better go back.”

Draco nodded and as they headed for the door, Servius paused and pointed up at the robe.  “That picture: the skull and the snake.  It’s a tattoo right?”  He turned to look sharply at Draco, who glanced at the image and then at Servius with a frown.

“Um, not a tattoo as such -,”

“It’s on your wrist.  I saw it.  My father has one too, doesn’t he?”

“You saw _mine?_ Um -,”

“What does it mean?  What’s a DE?”

“DE - where’d you hear that?”

“And what’s Azkaban?   Is it some kind of prison?  Who’s in there?  Other people with a tattoo?  Are they DE’s?”

Draco swallowed.  “That’s a lot of questions, Servius -,”

“Did you know my mother, Draco?”

Draco shook his head.  “No.”

“But she was at Hogwarts when you were there, in nineteen ninety-three.  She was the Muggle Studies teacher.”

“Professor Burbage,” Draco breathed, his eyes widening.

“Yes.  She was my mother.  How did she die?  Was it because she was a Mudblood?”

Draco cleared his throat, and raked his hair back with his fingers.  “You’re pretty clever aren’t you?”

“Take after my father, I guess.  Aren’t I lucky?”

“You should talk to him about this stuff.”

“Why can’t you tell me?  After all, I’m a Slytherin and she was just a Muggle Studies teacher.  And she’s dead now.  If your wife died, wouldn’t you want Scorpius to know the truth?”

“Only if he was old enough to understand,” said Draco, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.  “I – I think we should get back -,”

 _“You know,”_ said Servius, looking hard into Draco’s eyes.  “I can tell.”

And with that he wrenched the door handle open and fled into the corridor, then ran blindly back the way they had come.  He could hear Draco’s feet behind him, his name being called.  He ran into a corridor but it was the wrong one and swinging round in a panic, he stumbled on an elf exiting a room.  “The dining hall – where is it?” he demanded and the alarmed elf pointed.

He set off again, faster this time, determined, absolutely determined to know at last.  HBP was his father.  HBP had the tattoo, the DM, his father was one of them, _one of them_ , HBP had been _proud_ of it.

 _“Wait!”_ he heard Draco call, but the entrance to the dining hall was only metres away.  Servius paused, looked back and Draco came to a standstill, chest heaving.  “It’s all ancient history, Servius.  Your dad – he was – none of us knew about you -,”

But Servius shook his head, weary of that answer, unwilling to believe it.  His mother hadn’t kept him secret.  Balling his hands into fists by his side, taking a hitching breath, he stormed through the door of the dining hall.

There had been a tense conversation going on between the adults, but it came to an abrupt halt when Servius entered and they all looked at him.  “Ah Servius -,” Malfoy had time to say before observing the expression on his face and words died away.  Behind him, Servius heard Draco arrive and stand in the doorway, saying: “Wait, wait a damn minute – why don’t I -?”

Servius looked at Snape – at HBP – and the delirious anger inside him surged.  “Show me!” he shouted.

Snape scowled and pushed back his chair hard enough that it clattered to the floor.  “What are-?”

_“Show me.  Show me your wrist!”_

Snape didn’t move.  Nobody did.

“My mother was Charity Burbage,” said Servius, scanning wildly around the room.  “ _My mother was Charity Burbage and you people killed her!_ ”

Narcissa, in utter shock, dropped the knife she was holding and it clattered to her plate.  The sound shattered the freeze of time and space.  Snape moved toward him and Draco came in behind saying, “I tried to stop him – I didn’t know!”

At the clamour, baby Scorpius set up a wailing and Astoria got up as well, hastening to the bassinet.

“How did she die?  You know!  _You know – tell me!_ ” Servius shouted, edging to the side, watching both Snape and Draco.  Malfoy cautiously got to his feet as Snape came forward, and Servius saw the look they exchanged.  He backed away, putting the table between them.

“You all know!  Why won’t you tell me?!  _Who killed her?_ ”

“We all killed her,” came a voice, a drawling voice, from the far end.  Rabastan.  Snape stopped in his tracks, turned to him and whipped out his wand.  “Shut up!”

“Is this what you’re looking for, lad?” Rabastan said and rose to his feet.  He jerked back the left sleeve of his suit and laid out his inner wrist before him.  The mark there was as black as the ace of spades.

“I didn’t!” declared Andromeda, also now standing and shaking her head.  “I didn’t get the Dark Mark, I’m not one of you!”

“Dark Mark?” repeated Servius.  “What does it mean?  How did you kill my mother?  Why?”

Snape clenched his jaw and, before Servius could comprehend what was happening, strode quickly across the space between them and grabbed him by the arms.  “Out.  Now!”

“No!” screamed Servius, wrenching away so hard he thought his shoulders were going to dislocate.  He wriggled free of his jumper, leaving it limp in Snape’s hands and ran to confront Rabastan.  “Tell me!  Where did she die?  In here?  Is that why _he_ didn’t want to come in?”

Rabastan’s laugh was chilling, and Servius felt like simultaneously crying and striking out.  Snape once more was coming towards him.  “Do you want to tell him or should I?” said Rabastan to Snape with a pernicious grin.  “You’re too good at keeping secrets, Snape.  Eventually they’re going to catch up with you.”

“Servius, I’m warning you -,” said Snape, his eyes searing into his.

“Was Charity Burbage that woman - ?” said Narcissa to Malfoy, and looked up at the ceiling.  “ _She’s_ his mother?!  But – Severus was -,”

“Mother!” said Draco warningly.

Servius saw it all and yelled at Narcissa:  “She was here!  Where?  In the ceiling?  Was she a prisoner?”

Then Rabastan suddenly grabbed Servius and arm-locked him around the neck.  In a swift, smooth motion he pulled out his wand from inside his jacket and held it up to Servius’s jawline.  Then he said to Snape: “I think you owe it to the boy to tell him the truth.  I think you owe is to the Dark Lord, to Bellatrix, to my brother, to all the loyal and worthy doing time in Azkaban, to be fucking honest for once, Snape.  You’re fucking fast and loose with what’s what, you are.  Do us all a favour and _tell the fucking truth!_ ”

Snape eyed the situation, and while he didn’t put down his wand, he held up one palm.  “Calm down Rabastan.  Let him go.”

“Are you going to do it?  Or should I?  Because if memory serves, his mother was a Mudblood.”

There was a gasp from Andromeda and Astoria hurried out with Scorpius in her arms.  Malfoy spoke up. “Stan, this is completely unnecessary, Servius is a child -,”

“Shut up, Lucius.  Nobody was a bigger traitor than you, and that’s fuckin’ saying something.  Show the boy your Dark Mark and don’t try and pretend you didn’t bloody love it.”

“I let you here today, Stan!” cried Narcissa.  “I felt sorry for you!”

“ _You_ were here, Narcissa!” snarled Rabastan.  “You sat at this fuckin’ table and watched!  You were here, so was Lucius, so was Draco and so was Snape.  We were all here, and we all watched it happen, and nobody did a damn fucking thing.  Because she was a dirty, fucking Mudblood and we -”

Snape raised his wand and in less than a second had aimed at a spot between Rabastan and Servius.  He hissed “ _Stupefy_!”

Rabastan easily blocked it, but in so doing, Servius fell free and stumbled to the floor. To the sound of Rabastan’s roar of malevolent laughter, he clambered to his feet in moments and ran to the other end of the room.  Snape swiftly followed.  “Come here.  Right now.”

Servius watched him coming.  It was like watching a monster set its sights with eyes that could carve right through him; he was both terrified and repulsed. “No!  Leave me alone!  Who _ARE_ you?”

“Servius -,”

“No -,” the word tumbled out, half a sob, and finding a suit of armour behind him, he pushed it so that it fell with a giant clatter to the floor in Snape’s path.  Then he bolted, as fast as his feet could carry him, out of the door.

Snape was starting to follow him, heading for the door, when Draco stepped in front of him and said, “It was me!”

“What?”

“I had no idea she was his mother, _anyone’s_ mother.  I thought, I thought she was just -,”

“What are you saying Draco?” asked Malfoy sternly.

“I told Aunt Bella.  I told Aunt Bella who she was when the newspaper article came out.”

Snape narrowed his eyes.  “Told Bellatrix _what?_ ”

“That you – that you and Professor Burbage -,”

Malfoy turned to Snape.  “The Dark Lord knew.  Your Dark Mark – it alerted Rabastan -,”

“Did she run her dirty Mudblood fingers over you, Snape?” said Rabastan loudly, still grinning.  “At least _she_ was telling the truth.  Broadcast it nice and clear.”  Andromeda covered her ears.

“How did you know Draco?” asked Narcissa.

“At school,” he said miserably to Snape.  “Aunt Bella suspected you weren’t loyal.  I wanted in, to prove that I was. I told her what I saw.  The Fetherington kid who got expelled, he said Professor Burbage was a, was Muggle-born.  Aunt Bella told the Dark Lord what I told her.  I didn’t think he would kill Professor Burbage, Aunt Bella just said it would be the perfect test.  The Dark Lord laughed, she told me.  He said he was always having to rescue you from Mudbloods.”

“You -!” said Snape furiously and launched at Draco. “The graffiti – it was you!”

Malfoy leapt between them and held Snape by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry!” said Draco.  “I had an assignment!  I was supposed to kill Dumbledore but you – I had to do something!  I had to prove myself - ,”

“I saved your damn life!” spat Snape.  “Dumbledore wanted your soul spared, he knew you couldn’t do it and I took that risk away and you – you _betrayed_ me.”

“I betrayed _you?_   You betrayed us all!”

Snape raised his wand again and Malfoy shoved him back.  “Put that away!  This is my home and Draco is my son!  He’s just confessed, he didn’t know about Servius!”

“None of us knew about Servius!” Snape shouted.  “ _I_ didn’t know!”

“Why didn’t you save her, Severus?” asked Narcissa, holding her head with her hands and shaking it. “If you loved her?  How could you let her…how could you…?”

“Where is Servius?” It was Andromeda.  The four stopped and looked at her, and just then, Astoria came hurrying down the corridor toward them looking worried. 

“Servius – I saw him, he had his new broom – he’s gone out -,”

For a split second nobody moved or spoke, then Draco swore and immediately sprinted off in the direction of the back entrance.  “I’ll follow him,” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran. “I’ll send a Patronus.”

Snape didn’t wait. He ran to the front door, closely followed by Malfoy and Narcissa, and outside onto the gravel drive, looking up at the darkening sky.  And a moment later, he saw Servius propelling fast upwards over the roof of the Manor, hunkered down low on the Cerberus, wearing gloves and goggles, a Slytherin scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face that flapped behind him in the slipstream.  Snape raised his wand to cast his flying spell and follow, but Malfoy put his hand on his arm and gently lowered it. 

“Don’t Severus – if he sees you up there, sees you flying like that and chasing him - he’ll, well, don’t risk it.  He needs to concentrate.  Let Draco find him, he’ll send word.”

 

The adrenaline coursing through Servius’ system rendered him momentarily oblivious to the freezing temperatures around him now.  Having lost his jumper, he’d grabbed his club’s puffer jacket at the door, but had no time to find a hat.  And he didn’t much care.  His instruction to his broom was to take him to Trowbridge, and from there, somehow, he’d find his way home. 

The broom had oriented itself north-east and all Servius had to do was pick his elevation and speed, and then hold on, because he wanted to travel fast.  He was in fact less concerned about his destination as he was about getting away.  In the Manor, it had felt like he could no longer breathe, as though he were trapped in one of his father’s toxic specimen jars and that his heart would pound right through his chest if he stayed a second longer.  Everyone around him had turned to ghouls; their shocked, angry eyes blazed and the hateful laugh of Rabastan seemed to echo off the walls and follow him down the hallways. 

But worst of all was Snape.  His expression had been unreadable, and it confirmed for Servius that he didn’t know who his father was; at the same time he was forced to acknowledge that from the diaries, the textbook, he also knew him better than ever.   _What would HBP do now?_   he found himself thinking and laughed caustically.  But the answer was, he had to concede: HBP didn’t run.  _Then good, that makes us different_ , he thought…but in his heart, he was sorry he hadn’t realised that first.  His father didn’t run away and despite himself, he admired that.

Servius had never felt quite so alone.

Through the roaring of the air in his ears, he thought he heard a faint sound and glanced behind him, terrified in case it was a helicopter, but there was Draco, on his own broom, gaining rapidly.  Servius pressed the Cerberus forward but knew it to be a pointless exercise – Draco’s was a proper racing model, designed for Seekers and other fast sports; the Realm was for long-distance travel and  it would never out-run Draco’s broom so he waited to be flanked.

But when Draco pulled up alongside, he didn’t attempt to catch Servius or even talk to him, he simply shadowed, being careful not to make any sharp moves or get in the way in case Servius lost balance.  In some small way, Servius felt comforted, knowing his departure had been noticed and that Draco cared enough to follow him.

The low cloud he’d been travelling over began to break up beneath him, and intermittently he saw the marvellous geography of the countryside below: fields, roads, houses and rivers, streetlights shining, trucks and trains.  He imagined all the families indoors, having their Christmas Day, nobody out looking up at the sky - St Nick’s sleigh was well and truly gone now.  While the view was absorbing, he was soon interrupted by Draco waving for his attention.  Draco was pointing to the right, down at the ground.  There stood a semi-circle of huge, grey boulders, their arrangement casting long shadows, framed by a belt of clear green - Stonehenge.  His Ma and Pa had taken him only the once: too touristy for their taste.  “Your mother loved it here,” they had said, standing on the path, simply looking as the crowds strolled around them.  “Must’ve been the witch in her.”

_The witch in her._

At the time he hadn’t really understood what that meant.  He interpreted it the same as someone who was described as having Viking blood in them, or gypsy in their history – a genetic throwback so distant it hardly warranted mentioning.  He thought of witches as being a form of ethnic group rather than having any discernible powers.  But now he understood; the connotations in his grandmother’s comment gleaned an entirely new meaning.  Waypoints like Stonehenge from the position of a broom suddenly stormed into his consciousness as if floodgates had opened.

He was a wizard, born to a witch.  And his kind had been here forever.

The broom continued its very direct trajectory and below him came flashes of setting sun reflecting off a river in the Salisbury plains.  He thought he might have been flying about twenty minutes, and with the adrenalin wearing off a shivering commenced, so violent it made him wobble slightly.  Surely not far to go?  Draco stayed close by, but he too seemed to be focussed, no doubt wondering just how far Servius had in mind for his journey.  As if to communicate his intention, Servius dipped a little and Draco glanced over, then followed.

Farmland and rural estates gradually gave way to suburbs and then towns, and finally he recognised the bend of the Biss, and the St James spire, a Christmas tree in its courtyard, and realised with a rush of fondness for his comely hometown - he’d made it.  Having arrived, the Cerberus suddenly lost momentum, and panicking, Servius dropped height again.  Draco drew near and pointed downwards.  “Land” he mouthed.

The park.  He saw the park, the war memorial, and he pitched south.  Tall trees, chestnuts, naked but for strings of fairy lights, brushed past him and the ground was rushing towards him.  Draco pulled back away, slowing to land, but Servius forgot his training and stared blankly at a bare patch of mounded soil that was set aside for spring flowers.  Within seconds he’s ploughed in directly.

Had this been any other day of the year, his calamitous arrival would have been observed by dozens, including, no doubt, several Council workers.  As it happened, with dusk approaching and Christmas pudding settling the stomachs of most, the Muggle residents and otherwise were oblivious to a pre-teen in goggles crash-landing a broom in the park’s garden bed. Draco landed smoothly on the path nearby.

He came over and helped pull Servius to his feet.  “Merlin’s hairy balls, Servius – it’s freezing.  And where the fuck are we?”

“Trowbridge park,” said Servius, dusting dirt off himself and shoving up his goggles.

“ _Why?_ ”

“I panicked. But I can walk home from here.  I’m good, thanks Draco, I can walk from here.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Yeah.  This is my…my hood.”

Draco glanced about him. “Why didn’t you fly to Hogwarts?”

“Nah.  I’m done with all that.  I’m going home.”

Draco shivered and hugged himself.  “Actually I’m glad you didn’t go to Hogwarts – I’m not sure I’d’ve followed you all the way to Scotland -,”

“Why _did_ you follow me, Draco?” This was said through chattering teeth. 

Unexpectedly, a myriad of emotions passed across Draco’s face. He seemed to be processing on an alternate level, at cosmic speed, his own complex path that led to his answer.  He shook his head slightly, as if he himself couldn’t quite believe it.  “I…was worried.  You laid down some heavy shit back there.  Servius, firstly, you’re a wizard, whether you like it or not.  Secondly, Professor Snape is your dad, whether you like it or not.  And yeah, lastly, your mum died - ,”

“Whether I like it or not.”

“Whether you like it or not, Servius,” said Draco emphatically.  “You can’t change it.  You can’t change any of that stuff.  And coming back here,” he glanced around again, not bothering to conceal his mild contempt, “won’t change that.”

Servius sighed heavily and watched sparrows squabbling as they readied to roost for the evening.  “Draco, be honest with me, answer me one thing.  Did my father kill my mother?”

“No.  He didn’t.”

“But he was there.”

“Yes.  He was there.”

“Who killed her?”

Draco shook his head.  “He’s gone, Servius.  It was the Dark Lord and he’s gone.  They’ve all gone.  It’s ancient history like I said.”

“Did the Dark Lord hate my mum because she was a Mudblood?”

Draco swallowed.  “Yes…I suppose…it was a confusing time.”

“Am I…am I not as good a wizard because my mother was a Mudblood?”

And Draco stared at him. He stopped shivering, he stood still and he stared.  Then slowly he shook his head. He seemed surprised.  “N-no.  No.  You’re every bit a wizard.  I don’t know why you want to come back here, but – but I’m proud to know you, Servius.  You’d make an outstanding Slytherin.  And you can really fly that thing.”

Servius felt a smile rise involuntarily.  “You’re a good teacher.”

Draco looked uncertain, but he smiled in return.  Then he reached inside his coat and withdrew his wand.  “I’ve got to tell your Dad where you are.  They’ll all be worried sick back there.”

“Please don’t,” said Servius.

Draco’s smile became apologetic before summoning his _Patronus._ With a swoop of his wand, an ethereal scorpion emerged into the air between them, and it waited with its pincers raised in readiness.  “Send to Professor Snape,” said Draco.  “We’re at Trowbridge Park, landed and safe.”  The scorpion scuttled and then disappeared in a rush.

Draco waited with Servius in the park, watching as street lamps blinked on and buses trundled by, talking quietly and as inconspicuously as possible.  Not long later, there was a muffled crack and Snape Apparated within a nearby copse of trees.  He was wearing his black wool overcoat and had his carryall slung over one shoulder.   He checked quickly about him out of habit, then crossed the ground toward Servius and Draco in brisk, smooth strides.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.  I’m going home,” said Servius bluntly, and turned his attention to the ground in front of him.

Snape considered him a brief moment, taking in his condition and wellbeing, then turned to Draco.  “Thank you, I appreciate what you did.  But I’d go home now, Astoria is worried, and your parents – they’re distressed.”

“Is Aunt Dromeda still there?”

“Yes, but I lost Rabastan.  I’ll deal with that later.  Tell your parents I’ll be in touch.”

Draco nodded, and lifted his broom.  “Well…Merry Christmas I guess,” and offered a lopsided grin, but Snape didn’t return it.  With a quick wave at Servius, he Disapparated.

Without further ado, or another word to Snape, Servius picked up his own broom and began the long march in the direction of his grandparent’s house on the outskirts, easily fifteen kilometres away.  He huddled inside his jacket, his goggles still resting on his forehead, the broom an awkward load by his side.

As he anticipated, the sound of Snape’s footfalls were not far behind, but he only kept a steady pace and did not encroach on Servius for several minutes.  But when Servius approached an intersection he caught up and, standing beside him said quietly, “Your grandparents are not home.”

“What?  How do you know?”

“They made plans some time ago.”

Servius imagined his grandparents had gone to visit Holly, his half-sister, or his Uncle, and shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.  I’ll just wait outside for them.”

“They’re not back today.  Or tomorrow.  It could be some time before they return, Servius,” said Snape.

Just then the pedestrian walk signal sounded and Servius jumped.  He then hastily crossed, followed by Snape, trying to process what he’d just been told.

“That’s bullshit,” he finally said once they were on the other side, and glared over his shoulder at Snape.  “You’re just trying to stop me going home.”

“I’m afraid it’s the truth.”

Servius laughed derisively.  “Which I can always get from you, right?”

“I don’t know how far you intend to walk, but when you get there the house will be empty.”

Servius flared and swung round.  “I’m walking the whole way.  I’m going home.  And you know what?  You can keep this.” He flung the Cerberus at Snape’s feet and felt brief satisfaction at the flicker of consternation on Snape’s face, then immediately regretted throwing the broom away.  But what could he do with it as a Muggle? He stalked off again, a bit faster now he wasn’t loaded down, and ignored a sting of tears.

There was silence behind him and Servius thought his father must have got the message. He wasn’t about to turn around and check but his sense of victory was very short-lived indeed.  He hadn’t been in town himself at night before, and if his grandparents weren’t home – something he hadn’t stopped to consider - he had no idea what he would do.  But he had to finish what he’d started now, and anything, even a winter’s night on the front doorstep, was better than going to Hogwarts.

A few minutes later he heard footsteps behind him again, and listening closely, he recognised them as Snape’s.  The pace, the stride, the sound of his boots had become familiar to him.  Relief coursed through him, but he stared grimly ahead, concentrating on his plan, the sole extent of which consisted of finding the most direct route possible and then ringing the doorbell of his Grandparent’s house.  _His_ house, he reminded himself, even though he’d never owned his own key.  Snape had told him the password for his private quarters at Hogwarts, invited him to come and go as he pleased, but he’d never owned a key to his grandparent’s house.

He walked steadily for two hours, likely more, and managed easily being a long-distance runner, but he was freezing.  Snape stayed silently behind him the whole way, and if they passed rowdy Muggles falling out of pubs, or mean looking dogs in alleyways, then he heard Snape move up a little closer behind him until the threat had passed.  But he didn’t speak once.  Night had fallen and Servius frequently looked to the sky and its peppering of stars, and his mood became maudlin.  His thoughts turned to his mother, remembering how she looked in the Pensieve, and wondered if, wherever she was, she’d seen what he’d done today, whether she would approve or not. 

He thought it unlikely, but he still privately derived great satisfaction from having deduced more of the truth, and doing it himself.  He’d beaten Snape now, the balance of power had been upset and he had everything he needed to end the relationship altogether.  His father had been complicit in the death, the murder, of his mother, and though he may not have pulled the trigger himself, his inaction had been equally heinous.  Snape had proudly and deliberately joined some dreadful gang or association, the majority of whom were now locked up in prison for their crimes, their _race_ crimes, which apparently hadn’t been so awful on the part of his mother that Snape wasn’t prepared to have a relationship with her, but which he couldn’t or wouldn’t defend in front of his violent colleagues.  The most unforgivable display of hypocrisy and cowardice, everything his mother despised.  Perhaps his mother had discovered this about him, and kept Servius away as a baby to protect him from Snape and his prejudices.  Perhaps she’d be appalled that he’d been sent to school with him.  Maybe Snape was just waiting until Servius was older and then intended to inculcate him into the same ideology.  A shudder went through him, not just from the cold, and he quickened his steps.  It didn’t matter about HBP anymore, he’d throw the diaries on the fire if he ever saw them again.  His task now was to eradicate everything about Severus Snape from his life.

At long last the shadowy dimensions of Briggside came into view, and more wearily now, Servius opened the small gate and went up the path to the front door, observing that the house was in complete darkness.  The sensor light on the porch switched on as he mounted the two front steps, but this didn’t encourage him – the curtains were all drawn and a rolled-up newspaper lay in the flower bed.  There, on the doormat, were the cards he’d sent by owl.  He picked them up, dread prickling up his spine, then rang the doorbell.

“They’re away, Servius,” said Snape, who had followed him through the gate and now stood at the bottom of the steps.  Servius ignored him, and pressed the bell again.  He could hear it ring inside and it sounded empty and hollow.  “They won’t be back tonight.  I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”

“Where are they?” muttered Servius, staring at the door.  “How do you know?”

There was a lengthy pause, then Snape said, “I’m told they went to Spain, a family gathering. They passed the message to Madam Peacock.”

“Why didn’t they tell me?” demanded Servius, turning to face him, furious and devastated in equal measure. “Why wasn’t I included?  I’m part of the family!”

Again Snape hesitated before answering.  “I imagine they presumed you’d want to spend the holidays in…our world. Considering…I too am family.”

“No!  They were wrong!” shouted Servius, his voice ringing out in the quiet street, and a light came on in the house next door. “They should’ve asked me!  Why do I never get to have a say?  This is my world!  This one!” And he whirled around and started pressing manically on the doorbell and pushing at the door.  Snape quickly withdrew his wand, and with a glance at the neighbour’s window, unlocked the door.  It opened without warning into a hall, and Servius stumbled inside, Snape close behind.

“Get out!  You can’t come in here!” hollered Servius, collecting himself, and pushed Snape back.  “Get out.”

“Calm down.”

“No!  You can’t tell me what to do anymore!  I’m not going back to Hogwarts, you’re not my teacher and you’re not…you’re not anything.  So get out! This is my house not yours!”

Once more Servius pushed Snape, who then grabbed Servius’s arms and held them away.  Servius responded by kicking out instead, and landed his boot hard into Snape’s thigh.

A volley of curses and Snape thrust Servius away, and he stumbled against a hall table with an empty vase on it.  The vase crashed to the floor and briefly the pair stared at it, then Servius yelled: “Fuck!  That’s Ma’s favourite.  That was _your_ fault!  She’ll go fuckin’ mental!”

“It can be repaired,” muttered Snape, but he made no motion to do so.  He was watching Servius, frowning heavily.  “I’m not leaving.  We go together.  Back to Hogwarts.”

“No way!”

Servius dodged around Snape and pulled open the front door again, then attempted to shove Snape back through it.  Snape lifted him clear of the ground, but when Servius once more used this as an opportunity to strike him with his boots, Snape dropped him and instead produced his wand.  First he slammed shut the door, then he snapped, “I’ll _incarcerate_ you if I have to!”

Servius only had a vague idea of what that meant, but he knew from experience that Snape didn’t make threats lightly.  The impotent rage surged through him, the helplessness.  In his mind, Briggside and all to do with it had been held as a refuge, the place he could come back to and return to normality, and so having Snape here in the house with him felt like the worst kind of invasion.  It sickened him that Snape was apparently all he had left.  Whether they intended it or not, his grandparents had abandoned him, they’d picked his mother’s _other_ child, the one with a Muggle father, the one they knew, the one that looked like them, behaved like them.  _He_ – unwanted son of a strange, absent man in black – he was better off gone.

“ _Leave me alone!_ ” Servius shouted with all the passion he could muster, which was profound enough to crack his voice, and he felt his throat constricting.

The staircase leading to the bedrooms was behind him and he turned and sprinted up, getting away before Snape could see his tears.  He ran across the landing to his old bedroom, threw open the door and stood in shock when he turned on the light and discovered his grandparents had converted it into some kind of hobby room.  Where his bed used to be was now an ageing treadmill.  He saw a clear plastic, lidded box against the far wall, and inside were some of his things.  Things he thought he wouldn’t need to take to Hogwarts because they’d always be here, when he came back.  But when he took off the lid, the first thing he saw was the brown owl he’d had as a baby, a soft toy that hooted when squeezed, although that mechanism had long gone.  The owl had become stained and careworn and had once survived overnight in the park – he’d thrown it out of his stroller and his mother had gone back the next day to find it.  She thought it was a miracle it had still been there, but really – who was going to steal it?  Nobody else could love it.  His eleven-year-old self had decided, since there was now Tāne, he didn’t need brown owl anymore, he certainly couldn’t take it to boarding school.  But he’d left it under his pillow on his last day at Briggside, convinced he’d find it in the same place when he came home.

He sank down and sat cross-legged on the floor of his old room, holding brown owl, staring coldly at his plastic box of belongings and the tears welled up and slipped out, one by one, huge, and his throat burned. 

“Did your mother give you that?” came a quiet voice from the door.  Snape silently approached and slipped brown owl out of Servius’s hand, unresisting.  “Did she have an owl like this as a student?  Is this why you picked Tāne?”

Servius had no intention of answering, and sat sullenly where he was.  He knew, from the diaries, that HBP had often felt exactly like this.

“Was this your bedroom?”  Into the silence, Snape added, “Are these all your things?”

Servius sniffed loudly, willing the tears to stop but they wouldn’t.

Snape issued a deep sigh.  “I’m sure they planned to convert it back if you came home.”

Servius clambered to his feet, snatched brown owl from Snape and stormed out of the room, further along the landing and pushed open the door to another.  His mothers.  He turned on the light and found the bed made with a strange, pink bedspread, the room decorated for a girl.  Snape followed and glanced about when he entered.  “Holly’s room?”

“Mum’s room!” Servius shouted, then crossed the floor and flung open the wardrobe.  It was full of clothes, teenage girl clothes.  But on the top shelf was a cardboard box.  Servius reached for it and Snape, easily, lifted it out for him. Servius threw it on the bed – it was virtually empty – and after opening it pulled out the meagre contents in a frenzy.  Nothing but worthless costume jewellery, some writing paper, a pair of gloves, an old Nokia phone.  “There was a picture!  A photo!” Servius cried.  “It’s gone!  She took it, that _bitch!_   It was mine!”

Then he hoisted the cardboard box at the wall and it bounced off harmlessly and that made him feel worse.

“Servius -,” he heard, and a hand at the back of his neck.  He pulled away as though burned.

“Get off me!!  Don’t touch me.”

“Look.”

He turned just enough to see and Snape was opening the flap of his coat pocket.  From within he pulled out a picture, a photo.  It was of Charity and Servius, he as a baby, she was kissing him on his round, soft cheek.  “I have it with me always,” Snape murmured. “If…if you want it, it’s yours.  I’ve memorised it.”

Eyes fervid and wet, Servius turned fully to stare up at him.  “Where did that come from?” he whispered.

“Some of her things were delivered to me. From where she worked.”

“That’s the same picture.”

“She must have had copies made.  She kept this with her things, the things I showed you in my room.”

Servius reached out and fingered the photo lightly, but he didn’t take it.  “That’s yours,” he said.  “Like the memories in the Pensieve.” He looked up again.  “I wish I could remember her.”

Snape held his eyes and nodded, barely perceptible.

“I know how that feels,” he said.  “More than you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Many thanks to Felix Felicis Writer for her use of Draco's Patronus as headcanon 2. Apologies for the length of these recent chapters - the end is in sight (!) and I'm trying to cover ground. We're homeward bound :)


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